And I'm battle - damaged,
I don't know what to do.
I am not the enemy,
I just wear the uniform.
The flag of truce hangs ripped and worn,
I can reach out my hand,
But I can't make you take it.
I try to say something,
But it all comes out in Russian.
I don't know how to make you understand.
How do we scrape a future,
From such a tortured wasteland?
Would you listen to my tears,
Or flare up anew?
I came to say the war was over,
To stand down,
To go home.
© Louis J. Brodigan 1993
Authorised for publication as per fair use, excluding
collections, public performance or mass duplication.
(again, reposted by a fan)