Give a soldier a gun,
he will forget his tongue.
No rules,
this thing called war,
pours the soul to the floor,
blinded, kicked and prodded,
stained black,
but what about the ones that don't leave a scratch?
How much pain can they inhale
before the cracks begin to show?
Fractured,
scrambled,
stunned into silence,
unable to speak,
ashamed of the hell
a country commands,
yet unable to forget,
forever locked inside,
a recurring frame where
blood saturates the eyes,
screams pierce the drums,
shots vibrate the bone,
and then finally back home,
trying hard to move on,
tell me where do you turn,
When all that was green,
has gone red?
Give a soldier a gun,
and he will forget his tongue,
and when that moment comes,
It is time,
to hang the stars and stripes upside down.
*www.Goldenphant.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The sign of distress...brilliant.