Do not shed tears for the drowned boys
like flotsam on the Turkish shores.
Free from their fathers’ stupidity,
their wings bear the Trojan horse
to the ruins of antiquity
and to the altruistic Norse.
Weep rather for the fair-haired boys
and for the blue and green-eyed girls,
your grandsons and your great granddaughters
with tiny fingers in yellow curls?
There will be no baptismal waters,
only fire drowning out their worlds.