I thought I was out, was home, that I was free.
Thought id paid my debt, to home, to god, and country.
But part of my soul was sold to the sands,
Just to survive. I part I couldn’t see.
Till I’m home, was with my girl, and brushed strands
Of beads hanging in her door, or smell a spice or incense
and deep-desert-contact freeze. I’ve heard coffin nails dropp since.
They sound like shell casings, or footfalls on I.E.D.s
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem