In glorious swoops of courage, the birds’ talons grasp tightly to bloodied men.
Fearful.
Hopeful.
Their silver wind of relief has finally begun to blow.
Though always late, the hawks arrive just in time.
Looking back, the stories speak gruesome truth:
X-Ray was Hell; a no-man’s-land of loss and meaningless fire.
The shed of red life, salted tears, and deep-tissue scars
Has been argued to be worth the ****, sweat, and northward hate for which they feel so deeply;
Debated from the lips and tongues of penguins who live in an idol home of marble and comfort,
A place where mice need not be afraid of man nor hawk,
But should be always mindful of the snake.
The question stands:
What is this all for?
The golden years of reminiscence have passed us by;
Boys have become men, men have become droids.
And these ironclad mechanisms of sacrifice have leaked,
Laughed in the yellow faces of destruction,
Cried in the sweet solace of dreams,
Yet, they remain stoic in their duties.
They are forced to rust.
Forced to fall apart.
Forced to learn
How to replace and be replaced,
How to break and how to mend,
How to hang on.
How to let go.
In the dense forests of struggle,
They play hide and seek with figures unknown:
silhouettes of themselves and each other, as well as those who they are obliged to send to a boggy grave.
They play this game,
They lose this game,
Handing life and limb for a cause which is not their own;
Hardly any cause at all,
But a cause manufactured to rescue that of another.
Brothers departed kiss the white clouds of peace,
Thanking God for the homecoming.
Men enduring thank God for another night amidst their dread,
So to savor every last breath.
Pray for death, hope to live.
Beg the question:
What the Hell am I doing here,
On some other man’s land,
Where my nose does not belong?
Innocent farmers.
Or are they suckers?
Or are WE suckers?
Pawns.
Pawns on a chessboard. Dots and arrows on paper maps.
Statistics.
We’re just a game played by children half an Earth away.
A game where
Some men are lions, some men are wolves,
But all men have learned—if not by now, then soon—
That “friends” equals pain.
And pain is suffering.
Pleading for the answers,
When’s it subside?
When’s it take a back seat so then we can move forward with our lives?
It doesn’t.
It engulfs you.
It becomes your life.
Your dreams.
Your stories.
It becomes you.
Old, frail, desensitized, and stone-faced you.
And at such a young age.
“War is Hell, soldier.”
Welcome to Vietnam.
Written from the perspective of any given man who was a part of the U.S. Military's combat units in Vietnam between 1964 and 1975, intended for the folks back home, as well as those young men who wished and/or were soon to become combatants in the war.
