War

There were five of us this morn,
Only I remain as the sun goes home,
But here I stay, in the frontier,
Amidst the prison made of bodies,
Shivering, hungry, cold and almost dead,
Knuckles split, and nails broken,
Lips parched and eyes bloodshot,
Shell-shocked and uncomprehending,
The flicker of hope, all but gone.
The smell of burnt bodies,
And that of blood and mud,
Mixes with the air, swirling hypnotically.
War has come, famine follows,
I die tonight, my story dies tonight,
Meaningless torture; cold eyes behind enemy lines,
Betrayer and traitor if I go home.
So, I go to the only place I can:
My body one with the elements,
Burnt dispassionately,
Like yester’s waste,
Less than a mangy cur,
Less than rotting wood.

(inspired by the movie Saving Private Ryan)