Perhaps the homeland is this.
Not the proud deeds,
the banners, nor the hymns
recess and overalls and teachers.
It's death crouching
among the mists of the valley,
the dawn of the trenches
slipping into cellars where children lie.

Yes, the homeland is this.
Implacable gods who claim to be human.
choking skulls
of smoke and dust and fire,
dreams annihilated
against the barbed wire.

It is my father who, today,
he has not returned at dawn,
and he is my brother
the one that now,
with different uniform
hold my gaze