I was walking home
side by side with my mother
on the country road,
she looked down
and quietly whispered:
Here is the unmarked grave,
try not to step on it,
pray for his soul,
he was young,
and he had a dream
just like everyone,
he was the foreign warrior,
killed by his enemy in WWII.

They found in his pocket
two pictures,
he kept them close to his heart,
people were saying,
that he had a family
and a little girl with blue eyes
on the other shore of Baltic Sea...

I was listening
to my mother's sad story,
gazing at the tall weeds,
taller than me,
blooming upon somebody's bones.

I was wondering about the little girl,
just like me,
and I felt sorry,
that she grew up without her father.

WWII was still alive and real
in my mother's memory.

She accepted it
as the wrong side of the mirror,
covered by darkness,
where the troubled shadows
and satanic ghosts
are walking alive forever.