While On Military Patrol And Crossing A River Poem by Gert Strydom

While on military patrol and crossing
a river where some weeping willows
were growing on the bank
I remember days long gone
when the black boys threw
clay at me
from bending willow canes,
or shot small rocks with catapults
but now they were armed
with AK-47 submachine guns
and RPG-7 rocket launchers
and the old South Africa
and my boyhood was lost
and my R-1 rifle that could shoot
right through trees and their guns
claimed a terrible cost called death
and still somehow
the blood on the earth
was an alien type of sacrifice
without me really knowing
what all the battles fought
and all the bloodshed bought?