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May 2014
Our blood was too precious for them
"Take my blood," I said," A positive."  
"I can't," said the medic, "you're American.
He's Polish."

We attended all the final farewells.
The dirge was in helicopter whirls.
The Poles wouldn't bother coming to ours.
We held them at the most inconvenient hours.
You know, in the night, in the dark--like theirs.

An unlucky Polock who stepped on a mine
(ironically this might have saved 3 other lives)
contained in him the same shade of red
and judging by the mess, he was the same shade of dead
as ours.
I found his boot--it had been blown off and away.  We wore the same brand.
Written by
Noor  California
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