The poet says to the soldier;
Tell me your story.
Tell me the story of your wars,
Of the friends you died with
And the enemies you found life with.
Tell me of the sound of mortars
And the screams, yes the screams.
Tell me of dazed eyes and muddy boots,
Of courage and cowardice in the face of fear.
Tell me of the stink of unwashed bodies
And the bodies of dead men.
Tell me of the letters from home
And of those returned unanswered.
Tell me of the smoke, of the wet nights
Blurred with cigarette butts blinking red.
Tell me of the prayers men said
And what death was offered for life.
Tell me, soldier man, your story.
I want to know what it means
To kill to stay alive. Tell me.
The soldier replies the poet;
The earth is round and man
Is the same all over the world.
Women are strong in love
And dangerous in anger.
There is fear between brothers
And every land bleeds red blood.
Guns cannot kill but people
Take the reaping of souls as serious
As the harvest of yam and fresh fish.
In the mud, skin colours make no difference
And fear has no dialect or accent.
Fathers do not return home
And mothers are always forgotten relics
By the time sons remember home.
Daughters roam, mourning empty streets
And letters are burnt as kindling
When it is cold and the guns are silent.
Silence...
The poet swallows his thoughts
And watches the moon become a sickle
That cuts into complex philosophies.
The whimper of liquid fear stains the air.
The soldier studies the cackling fire
And ponders its wildness and freedom.
He listens to the whimper of fear
And shakes his head in sadness.
He waits for the silence then he sighs,
He looks at the poet who looks back at him.
The soldier clears his throat and says;
Tell me, poet, you
Who digs into the truth that sleeps,
Who burrows into the darkness
That silence breeds,
Tell me of the world you see.
Is love a flower that flourishes
In the summer of life and births seeds
That builds a garden?
Do children still skip to school
And swing back home with dirty faces?
Do you still say grace over family dinners
And those pastors, do they still visit?
Yes, did the boy marry the girl?
Did the girl give birth to a boy or a girl
And did they all live happily ever after?
Are the streets safe and do maidens
Still dance under the tree,
Swinging their waists to the beats
Of hungry hearts and thirsty fingers?
Is the palmwine still cool with freshness
And is the hunter still getting meat?
The poet replies softly;
My friend, you have been gone
For too long, I see.
The world you left for your wars is no more.
The boy became a man and left his wife
For the taste of another's soup pot.
The girl sells her body to feed her boy
And the boy smokes weed to feed his spirit.
The streets are silent and kids no longer skip.
They swing from street to street
Pillaging, raping and claiming
In the name of the god, Gold.
The palmwine has soured in the gourd
And roast meats are spotted with worms.
The hunter now hunts men
And we have forgotten who we used to be.
Silence...
The soldier sighs
And studies the moon,
The world is no more it seems, he says.
The poet shakes his head
As he studies the fire;
The world is still here.
It is just dressed in a different garb, he replies.
They sigh and watch the sun rise.
THE END
©warpedpoetic, 2018.