Hiroshima Almost Returning Poem by Gert Strydom

I saw Buccaneer bombers lined up
with bombs being loaded into bomb bays,
the ultimate of weapons coloured
in copper red with lead tips,
with pilots waiting on the attack command
strapped into their cockpits,
canopies closing,
taxiing to takeoff positions
and then again waiting there,
later switching engines off

and I wondered where these men
would unleash the manmade suns
if and when the attack command come

and if there would be winter, death and disaster
for a thousand years
and if this action would bring us endless tears
with similar retaliation in return
from some sympathetic soviet superpower
as a token of goodwill
to the countries being attacked

and far too clever for me were those
weapons of mass destruction,
that had the ability to burn even shadows
right into concrete
but luckily the order never came to proceed.