Mom did not see the passing out parade,
twelve hundred kilometres to home and back
is a long run, but she did visit me in a military hospital
and border duty wasn't anybody's choice
but by train, plane, truck or armoured car
the military got you there
where the sun was scorching,
some nights were cold
and you're life was every day on hold
and patrols could be great strolls
through the veldt, the bush
with gnats flying around your head
or moments of life and death,
with pain in every breath
and I was only eighteen
saw some men blown to bits
was half concussed with
rockets exploding near to me
heard bullets whine over my head,
shot some enemies to stay living,
split trees with rifle grenades
and the army was great fun
especially if you hopped in and out
of choppers every single day
and knew that your time was running out
and still I am here
but changed to someone else
who is more of a soldier than a human being.
[Poet's note: A chopper is a word used for a helicopter in the South African Defence Force.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem