The suffering was real.
The telling of it is simply a story.
How the child coped with the cruel events.
Hot shrapnels whizzed past.
Buildings burst apart.
All around the town burnt.
Oil refineries, munitions factories But also tenements and buildings Human habitations cracked and burned around him.
The smell of death was everywhere.
That sweet, unmistakable smell.
The boy took no notice.
He walked from street to street.
He searched for his friends.
Bombers above him filled the sky.
They came so low Skimmed above the tops of tenements The underbellies showed their horrid markings.
Yet the boy walked undeterred.
It was his life not theirs.
The town was his town not theirs.
Hissing hot shrapnels missed him.
Buildings collapsed behind him.
Who let loose these mad devils?
Not that he was not annoyed.
Not that he was not angry.
Not that he did not curse the whole mad world.
He took no shelter just walked Among the ruins of the exploding town Stepping over the torn cut open corpses.
And at last he reached his destination.
His uncle was by the furnace baking bread. 'I have come to help,' the boy said.
And all night they baked bread.
Neither of them would admit that the Whole town was forever dead.
John Rety SOF Annual Conference: Leicester, 21-23 July Information: sofconf09@yahoo.co.uk or www.sofn.org.uk To Sofia Editor I am writing to communicate my experience of the magazine. I have renewed my subscription and have been reading the most recent issue. I think that while it has always been welcome it has under your editorship been better than ever. As a poet I like the poetic dimension you have brought to it. I look forward to more Sofia with you as editor.