I Am Happy To Be Alive Poem by Gert Strydom

The African sun is white hot
in the bright blue sky
and the fresh wind
jerks on thorn branches
and blows the red dust up,
where dead enemy soldiers
lie on the battlefield

At places there are burned out tanks
and armoured cars
but so many people are reaped
that shock waves even hit Havana
where women and children
keep on crying.

Thorn bushes make fat round shades
and those of the higher trees
are stretched out longer,
while one of the officers
draws lines in a little black book
through names.

White powder are thrown over the dead
lying in ditches
and hang burning in the air
for anyone that inhales it
and there are flies everywhere,
but nothing can dissipate
the smell of death.

Further away three puma helicopters land
in big brown dust clouds
to pick up our few wounded
and the brigadier looks complaisant,
where he smokes a Camel
and are talking with a commandant and a major.

Everywhere around me lie Cubans and Fapla
shot to pieces, burned, maimed
and there are body parts and ponds of blood
that meets my eyes
and my three-day-old beard itches
and my eyes are tired and red
while sweat runs in small streams
down my cheeks
and I am happy to be alive.