„Again he fighting with his foe, counts o'er his scars,
Tho' Chelsea's now the seat of all his wars,
And fondly hanging on the lengthening tale,
Reslays his thousands o'er a mug of ale."
- Sir John Soane, inscription at the summerhouse
of the Royal Hospital, London -
the veterans grow out of the grass
attired in emeritus uniforms;
their heavy buttons seem so matt
in the late sunlight - the brass glinting back.
they grow from the grass as in the myths
when an army was sowed with dragon's teeth.

indeed the veterans bare their teeth
on photographs as brown as parched grass
in summer - more faded even than myths.
battle, said the greek, is where all forms
begin, to battle too all things lead back.
and now the veterans assault their matt-

erhorn of memories, its glow grown matt
against the light. their false teeth
however, long forgotten, they've left back
in the plain. easily overlooked in the grass
are grandchildren happy with the basest forms
of game - unlike the veterans themselves, smiths

of fate in a game surrounded with myths,
where king meets king and knights give mate.
(small wonder then the craftsman who forms
the pieces uses ivory and walrus teeth).
in the veterans' garden grows the grass.
the snail with one foot out slides back.

the veterans' thoughts often take them back
but rarely forward. what transpires are myths.
their grandchildren play on the very grass
on which their comrades fell, whose eyes were matt
in death. survival means to clench your teeth
and master fate in all its manifold forms.

their nurses wear white uniforms
and still feel warm. they roll them back
inside when first stars flash their teeth,
and then a mighty army of myths
follows them up to their rooms. once matt,
their imprints soon dissolve in the grass.

the dark forms drift across the grass -
some might think of teeth. or myths.
but the king stays back: checkmate.

Translated into English by Iain Galbraith