It was difficult to stand
that view of horror
without seeing again the child without hands.

It was alone in the cold,
beset by the range of the red
in that Ukraine of death.

No one else but him had devoured
its own hands dirtied
by the innocence of the childhood.

He had done that so as not to kill
his neighbor in the misery
of a century forgotten by all.

From now on he could die
and be guilty
only of its own death.