The grin on a face or is it a grimace?
Sweat becomes mud in the dust of a dead land.
Sweat? Perhaps drops of death’s colourful agents
released by white hats to kill black pyjamas.

Green becomes brown in the land of moon festivals
and sweat becomes blood ’neath the monsoon of metals.
With bamboo to maim, not kill. More effective!
They know we go home.
Forgotten!
Neglected!

“Click!” - a distance or the sound of a rifle?
And those sounds!
Are they monkeys or human screams stifled?
Shivers of cold fear in hot humid jungles
where the snap of a twig sends senses unfettered
into realms of resources unknown and untested.

And the looks in the eyes of our damnable brothers
reflect what we feel - with the soul of a stranger.

Crying to live, not to be taken.
Knowing deep down that we are forsaken!
Until through the haze of our hellish torn earth
we are helped by each other…

…to deserving rebirth.

But the noise and the taste, the smell and the feel
linger on wantonly.
Remnants of experiences…

Incredible!

Unreal!