Dulce bellum inexpertis

The sweat.

It bleeds through the pores of your skin,

melding together to form a bead.

It drips down your back as you perch behind a tall boulder,

covered in blood, on the balls of your feet.

Almost unwillingly,

You block out the sound of agonizing screams and bullets,

As all you can hear is the sound of your roaring heart,

fighting to be free.

All you can feel are your shaking hands,

And quivering lips,

now when you take your next step towards chaos all around you,

You finally understand…

You finally understand that you’ve hurt, and keep hurting,

The ones that are innocent, the ones with a real life,

And you understand that when it’s too late,

You only understand that when you’ve dropped all those grenades,

Most of the lives that lived near you,

you have taken away.

And when you’re lying on the blood covered terrain,

clasping your fresh wound as a bright light slowly fades into your view,

it is only then you realise what impact you’ve had.

The realisation brings on your tears,

They drip from the corners of your eyes,

Hang on to your lashes,

Until gravity becomes too much for them to behold,

So they softly glide down your cheeks,

Into your open mouth, tasting their saltiness.

Your life begins to flash before your eyes,

When you decide that you should’ve understood,

You should’ve understood the consequences of your actions.

You contributed.

Blood flows out of your wound,

As your eyes become white and you lose all the feeling in your neck,

and let it fall back,

hitting the ground and creating a crater around your head.

It was too late.

You lost your battle.

So many had to lose their lives,

when words would’ve been enough.

Diana Ozola

14 -16 years old

Southfield Grange Trust, Bradford