Behind this door, a mother waits for her lost son’s return,
as if she never understood the meaning of death.
She waits for her beloved
until her tears dry,
her face pales,
her blood drains,
and her strength withers.
As if she has become him,
gathering the fragments of her soul
to depart with him.

Behind a second door,
a daughter dreams of her imprisoned father’s return.
Every day,
she imagines his presence,
sees him in everything,
and every day,
he does not see her.
She speaks to him,
but he does not respond.
She becomes imprisoned by nothingness,
while he is truly imprisoned,
only within her.

Behind a third door,
a wounded man screams,
his leg amputated
at the last corridor of the hospital.
Without anesthesia,
without a pillow or bed,
he raves in agony,
never leaving the hospital.
Burdened,
he awaits the regrowth of his leg.
He screams alone,
but no one hears his cries,
and only deep sorrow grows within him.

Behind doors and doors,
swarms of tiny birds
fly toward the sky,
grasping in their claws
the bodies of the war dead.
Carrying the fallen,
they craft from the martyrs
ladders for us
to ascend to heaven.

And behind yet more doors,
there are the living, but as if dead.
They walk the paths of life
as though unable to walk.
They cry whenever they pass a street,
recalling a martyr, a wounded, or a captive.
They sink into exhaustion,
like any drowning person,
sailing aimlessly,
without a companion.
They wish the door would open,
even for a moment,
even just once,
believing, in their overwhelming sorrow,
that this door
is the final door.