tired ramblings of a sick soldier

In order for me to write poetry 

that isn't political 

I must listen to the birds

And in order to hear the birds

The warplanes must be silent

—Marwan Makhoul

What do you bring to a war?

Some clothes over your back that survive you,

so they recognise you

Some food to tide you over,

cooked by a mother, or a lover

The last whistles of the train as you try to pocket the tears of your family,

some sturdy suitcases to save what is yours when you cannot,

they carry potraits of your family, letters from your lover.

What do you bring to a war?

Some comfort women because you fight only during the day,

Nights bring a different enemy- 

Lust that needs to be sated and women that need to be conquered.

What do you bring to a war?

Some guns, a couple of bombs, a rifle, few bullets.

A determination to kill, and a courage to die,

Which of these is easier, you'll never know.

So you bring to a war- death and stink

that takes over the innocent, their houses, their worlds,

An intention to loot and plunder- to take what is rightfully yours,

no matter that it is all they've known,

A belief in the necessary evil because it's all you've known,

and a resignation that you could never make it your faith.

What do you take from a war?

The tears of another solider, begging you to give him a merciful death- 

a quick gunshot, a knife to the heart,

disfigured and broken-

you can't tell if he's yours or another's.

What do you take from a war?

Gunshot wounds - some your own, some not,

Poems written in underground bunkers and battlefields, 

that will never see the light of the day,

they only come out when the ghosts of the people you've murdered begin to haunt you

Tired ramblings of a sick soldier who promised you he would survive the week,

he died the next day, leaving you his belongings, and tales of people you will never know,

A letter, some loose change, and a flag will reach them, to share their sorrow.

What do you take from a war?

The haunted faces of the familes of the people you've murdered,

their screams, their tears that follow you around like shadows,

A photoframe with their smiling faces on it, a bloodied bassinet,

A squeaking toy under the weight of your heavy combat boots,

swallowing the joy and pride you felt when the letter first came.

What do you take from a war?

Location of graves with no headstones

to dignify them in their murders,

A fear of loud noises that shows up at carnivals, parties, every happy memory.

You leave the war, 

with renewed faith in religion,

to fight the night terrors, 

because you do not feel brave in the four walls of your bedroom, as you did before

some dreams of faces you remember, some you do not.

All scare you nonetheless

You leave with an inability to love, and the guilt of a scythe.

You leave with the wish to have known

that it all ends with

an exile from humanity that lasts a lifetime,

one you could never escape.