Grandpa's armor

I was small… and I wished for

armor of steel and light,

that would banish war forever.

And in my dreams,

Grandpa built it for me.

I never knew you, never heard your voices, never felt your hands, never laughed or cried with you. But in my childhood dreams, you were there,

Grandpa with the hammer, Grandma with the sad look. I never got to know you,

and that's why I can't miss you…

or can I?

When I was five, I promised the world:

I'll save them all if I'm strong enough.

I fought invisible enemies with sticks, swore that no one would ever have to cry again. In my imagination, you stood, Grandpa, in the workshop,

with sooty hands and sparkling eyes.

You forged steel, bent plates into shape,

armor just for me – indestructible, bright, and pure.

You laughed, deep and warm,

and said: "Son, with this you bring peace to the world."

I never knew you, never heard your voices,

never felt your hands, never laughed or cried with you.

But in my childhood dreams you were there,

Grandpa with the hammer, Grandma with the sad look.

I never got to know you,

and that's why I can't miss you...

or can I?

Grandma stood beside me, with flour on her fingers,

baking cakes for after the great victory.

She looked at you, Grandpa, with so much love,

and whispered softly: "Build it for him, please...

so he never has to experience what we experienced."

But the armor remained a dream,

the metal stayed cold, the hammer never fell.

And Grandma grew sad, quietly sad,

because she knew: The world remains broken,

and her grandson will still have to love it.

I've seen photos, black and white and yellowed,

your faces young, before it all began.

I look for similarities, maybe find a nose,

a smile that could have been mine.

But I don't know you.

Can't miss what was never there.

And yet… it hurts.

I never knew you, never heard your voices,

never felt your hands, never laughed or cried with you.

But in my childhood dreams you were there,

Grandpa with the hammer, Grandma with the sad look.

I never got to know you,

and that's why I can't miss you…

or can I?

Or maybe…

Sometimes I lie awake and imagine,

Grandpa, how you would have put the armor on me.

Shoulder plates heavy as responsibility,

breastplate shining like hope.

You would have told me: “Wear it with pride,

but never forget that peace isn’t made of steel.”

And Grandma would have kissed me on the forehead,

and whispered: “Come back safe, my little

boy.”

But the workshop remained empty.

The hammer lay still.

The armor was never made.

And you were already gone,

before I learned to breathe.