It is with great sadness that
I write to inform you
*this is madness
the smoke is so thick
stitched through with tracer fire
I can feel it burning the back of my throat,
stinging my eyes*
That your son has been
killed in action
*my rifle is bucking in my hands
recoiling from the slaughter
before me,
as I too recoil
nothing makes sense anymore*
Words can not express
the sorrow
*everything is slowing down
blood kisses the air before me
it's-
oh god
it's my blood
I'm falling*
You must be feeling
at this time
*it's so quiet
I can't move
oh god
it's so quiet,
why can I still hear the screams?*
Know that he did his duty
and died for his country
*it's so quiet
so cold
I-*
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
It is with great sadness that
I write to inform you
*this is madness
the smoke is so thick
stitched through with tracer fire
I can feel it burning the back of my throat,
stinging my eyes*
That your son has been
killed in action
*my rifle is bucking in my hands
recoiling from the slaughter
before me,
as I too recoil
nothing makes sense anymore*
Words can not express
the sorrow
*everything is slowing down
blood kisses the air before me
it's-
oh god
it's my blood
I'm falling*
You must be feeling
at this time
*it's so quiet
I can't move
oh god
it's so quiet,
why can I still hear the screams?*
Know that he did his duty
and died for his country
*it's so quiet
so cold
I-*
I've always felt that those letters to next of were, no matter how heartfelt, entirely inadequate. They're simply unable to portray the horror of those final moments.
(c) Jesse Bourque
Request permission to use this poem