He shot, wounded, took in,
Like a bird with a hit wing.
He took no money for the killed one,
It turns out, — for me, captivity.

Around, beauties in hijabs,
Binoculars for tracking victims,
Among the ruins and through the cellars
I too wander now,
A slave-girl at the warrior’s mercy.

He cares and tends,
Patches up and does not touch.
How long the armed person
Will not free himself from the burden — no one knows.