Son of War

When the war stories end,
you will find me in its smoky corners, trembling violently.
Look at my water, it is dirty,
and look at my future, it is empty.
I am the son of war.
My memory has been kneaded with its deadly dances.
Then I emerged from the rubble,
an echo of smoke and blood.
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Because I am a son of war,
I have a wild passion to smash all the morning flowers,
to drink all the milk of Australian cows,
to destroy all the trees of the cedar forest.
For here, in my chest, a hateful flame with a destructive voice.
It shatters all the beautiful mirrors
Here, in my chest, is a wild passion to kill the dreams of the moon.