Echoes of the Gulf (Conscience of War)
"An Arab land once a pilgrim part
A Muslim pride now a picture of ruin
Natives acting out what happened to them
Death by the hundreds blood bath in the street
Enslaved as a nation now without a crown-"
squeezing through the crowd of mourners
Trying to find an opening close to the havoc
Relatives and friends trying to restrain me
Eye telling me what I expected to see-
I resisted and they gave way as I approached
Bowing slowly backing away giving me space,
Standing over a carcass making the sign of the cross-
A mother cries out in the street looking at a son she loved
shattered arms and bodies in tartar
suicide bombers terrorist claims-
family homes looks like a funeral parlor
The dead! Yes I have seen it all before
Yes I have watched them before on TV
Burying folks em-mass like 'Rwandan genocide' attack-
Once upon a time in Africa.
Folks couldn't stop crying, hanky in all hands
In contract with the clothing, all in black
Who should it be, that brought up my kin's
Who should it be, that makes mama and papa cry-
A kin run up to me, into my open arms crying
The condolence keep pouring in wordily oration
The stench of the dead of roses and incense
Of my own apprehension setting in
As I go on and on the distance seemed everlasting
Like watching a movie in TV coming out in motion-
A widow bend nearly double with grief
Not yet thirty by the look of her
And by God! A kid straddled on her back
A baby who will never see or call papa-
I can smell an undertaker embalming fluid
He used to preserve the dead, as I walk the street
The pall bearers who brought the coffins
Looks like crows waiting for a carcass
The hundred of candles around the main
The smell of burning tallow
Killing me along with the thought of a dead-
The priest solemn alone with no alter boys
Swinging the censor around the coffin
Clouds of frankincense wafted toward us
And I like all Catholics made the sign of the cross
To a virgin whose son the Arabs hated-
And at the gulf of death here I come at least
And every form jumped right at me
There is no mistaken it
the pictures in my line of sight
The corpses look at me accusing me-
And then I woke up out of my own sweat
Back home safe and well
But the nightmare I know will continue
The spirit of the dead will always be in my conscience-
The only solitude will be to write about it
It is a writers craft to tell from art
Bringing the wounded world into our rooms
And invoke the conscience of the nations in time of war.
"Within the gulf the valley of death
Into an art so pure in truth
I wrote of what o poet saw
reenacting classic battles like on TV
A carnage so complete.
Amen to the freedom fighters
Alleluia -alleluia''
PART TWO
'here a soldier lend a voice'
With pride I enlisted with the army
Thought I was all like in the movie
With haircuts and orderliness
And a change away from civilian clothes-
Like barking dogs with human faces
They gave orders herding us like cattle
Sent to my battalion to battle a nation
Coz once a soldier you own yourself no more-
With such bitterness I thought about home
Folks uneasy about shielding a deserter
Cradled in the noise of their barking
The trail was hot in the Arab land-
Obscenely desperate for the enemy flesh
Never having enough men in my rifle sight
Into the carnage of the gulf I faced the terrorist
Rooting with terror I found they were men like me-
All limbs jittery, snout deep in water logged trench
Embraced by the squalid ramble of the battle field
A dozen or more corpses are on the anal tip of a crater
The khaki uniform stained with my own blood and urine-
Both factions, lying dead in chump and rows
Others were still screaming in horrible reality
Some without legs and arms, barely alive
All sinews ashen and splintered, shattered on the battlefield-
Yet herding the cattle, Barking at us, our leaders shouted
Go get the terrorist! Go get the terrorist!
Whiles soldiers were being blown or shot to pieces
falling like autumn fruits-
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