Wind born sand in barren landscapes.
Rusty red but little shelter
in the hut where he was born.

The toddler played with guns of wood
where thirst and hunger both  prevailed.
His early childhood soon foregone.

And as he grew he never tired
of tales told of battles fought,
imposing on his fertile mind.

And when the khaki jeep slowed down
his brown eyes opened shiny wide,
and on he jumped with  keen embrace.

Remote and bleak the training ground
where fostered skills gave birth to anger
aimed at non existent foes.

And then to join the fighting cause
yet still a boy he died in vain,
before his chin had seen a blade.