the despair of winter drove
them away
on the bush,
the moose dissipated
not even a hookimaw
can trace the tracks

inside the askihkan
under the fleece,
Crees covered their ears

the howling of the windigo

woken the ahcahk
of a awawatuk.

we digged our graves
deep below the ground

a stench rotten pit,
vermin and piled bodies,
waiting to be found  

we looked and somehow prayed under
the blue skies

when will this be over?

I write this letter
for the hero who kills
and who were killed
enlisted, constricted
with no door to find their way out

Western Front,
the only location we have on the map

go south
and wave the banner
with our weapons,
as if we are proud

we needed to move forward
and pull the trigger,
to bring home the red stain that will
never be washed from our clean hands

Home, we are welcomed and embraced
banners, and cheers
plaques of gold
for being one of the brave men

is it courageous; living in a dead body
that just happened to survived?

you fly with your wings
navigating in the air
with the control of your hands
wearing the four stripes

waving in the air, telling the world
that the time has come
and you are ready to soar up high

The wheels touched Charles de Gaulle
and found yourself in the night of Porto,
sipping red wine just beside the coast
that covers the face of a man from the fog of yesterday’s memory

The flight from Toronto and the girl who gave a beam from the Pearson’s gate, disappeared

you walked the cobbled street that lead you back to your hotel room, opening the balcony

you just couldn’t stop looking at the setting sun, and the birds that goes along the melody of a piano you played on the background.

sometimes, people could be harsh
or it is just you could be weak