“How, do you dear!” I shouted angrily.
Bartolomjei was one of my dearest companions, we used to call each other ‘Sharks’ because we were blind like predators. With him, I felt like I was growing under a light which his courage emanated, that’s why I could respect even the most dreadful of his tastes. He used to share with me the pleasure he gained from shooting people and we laughed about how clever we were becoming in the sight and in the sprint.They where intense days, and he was the only one who could always lift me up, a tough joker, with hard balls, he could have been a general, for sure. I reinstated: ‘You definitely know nothing about him he was…’
“Honestly- the vicious interrupted – nobody cares, he lays in the field of white flowers like everybody else, he did not win a war and never will he be celebrated, but a stone will crush his body. His death is the important thing! For you, only, he became a martyr, because you see the soil of this land drenched with nationalist water. When you will pass away, who is going to be there to recall his value? Instead, if you help me publish my words, he will be forever remembered as the purest spirit fighting for the honor of Poland”.
…“the purest spirit fighting for the honor of Poland? No no no! I knew that guy, he was a perverse killer, and you knew we all were, otherwise you wouldn’t have stayed in the back and snuggle up. I find no history in this poems, but only a medieval fantasy and surely not my friend, now, I am tired of you, get out”!
“ I deeply resented that particular soldier” the poet still had the guts to speak “but I now I respect because he achieved his full duty, to die; to die and to put an end to the war, because when to many dead will occur then we will see the end to this mess”. And left.