I gaze at enemy airplanes, searching the riddled land for their prey.
Their bullets and flames have consumed many virtuous lives to this day.

The acidic aroma of gunpowder no longer burns my nose.
Six months ago, I was drafted in this perilous life; I hadn't chose.

My comrade, Corporal Nick, lies in a muddy trench he had built.
His fly-infested body has been set free from this killing guilt.

A helicopter pilot has landed to carry the wounded to a safe medical camp.
Country boy, Private Alfred, has lain many hours suffering in the damp.

I hear the thunderous approach of armed tanks coming near.
My stomach is convulsed with flitting butterflies of fear.

Innocent blood keeps staining the swampy soil where I stand.
My eyes watch the armies approach but I can't feel my hand.

My priceless rifle is clutched with a secure grip by my side.
As I whisper goodbye to my lost comrades on their last ride.

My saddened eyes search the disappearing jungle land.
I see the continuing bloodshed but I can't feel my hand.

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