The Whistle

I remember the ruins from the war,
Where I used to play as a seven year old boy,
Occasionally finding an empty cartridge.
Which I blew like a whistle,
into the emptiness.
The bullet had been shot many years ago.
As I blew that piercing note on the cartridge into space,
I remember that I was glad that no ghost answered.
And luckily there was no ricochet either.
I was sure the bullet must have missed back then,
and had fallen to the ground somewhere
no harm done
And back then I thought: that bullet cannot kill me now.
the cartridge had become a whistle