In his heart,
his mind,
he had never been a soldier,
he found killing offensive
but to carry on living
he was forced into it
and would have preferred to be left alone,
not to be part of the bloodshed,
to pray to his God,
to live a righteous life,
but he was extremely good
as soldiers go
forced to be deceitful to himself,
making the best
in a world where there was no possibility
of anything grey
and everything was drawn
as in pencil
in black and white.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem