On The Battlefield Poem by Gert Strydom

Bullets whistle past
and I wonder how long
my life still can last
with every blast
of exploding mortar bombs and rocket grenades,

with destiny playing its game
unfolding death that is creeping nearer
and the rifle in my hands become alive
chattering in its own stinking voice
and the dread of killing horrifies
while a rifle grenade
splits a tree in two
and the mind blanks
while like a machine I carry on.