He stares at the whizzing blades above the bed,
recalling each face during moonlight hours—
civilians twitching with each bullet as they slam
into walls, finally trapped.
His hands, trembling, remain bare
but the faint iron odor sits under his nose, unmoving
since 1967 in Dak Son.

Defeated cries pierce the early morning silence
in the village.  A baby whimpers next to the body
of his mother. Women’s feet pound against gray dirt,
an anthem for the safety of children.

He visits fallen brothers, squinting
at endless rows of gravestones.
The villagers all lie together.