A tiny piece of metal,
shot out from a barrel.
Cold metal heating up suddenly.
A tiny piece of metal,
fired because men on chairs
decide they want to play chess,
and you’re the pawns.
A tiny piece of metal,
piercing skin, breaking bone,
exiting from the other end.
A man standing before you,
he saluted a different colour of flag,
his neck spitting deep red,
both from the front and the back.
Because you were told to, you killed.
Whom did you kill?
A father, whose daughter will have an incomplete childhood.
A husband, whose wife still eagerly awaits him,
away from these snowy mountains.
A friend, who will probably never greet his mates,
with a dazzling smile and a glass of whisky anymore.
You killed your own conscience,
in whatever way you may justify it,
in every sense of the word, you are,
a killer.

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