I remember well, the curse of Sarajevo
My friends cheering, the black line
'We will be home before Christmas'.
I joined because friends had joined.
Haunted by the poster saying,
'What did you do in the war dad'?
I survived the training, a young, well read
Sworn at and cursed by the old Boer war
Putting on the loose, ill fitting uniform
Like sheep. Docile sheep.
Trying to believe what I was doing was right.
When the fighting began, I was in a trench.
Stinking mud of bodies, faeces and rats.
The noise of the guns, thundering and scarring me.
So there is no sleep and I cannot think.
Whistles blowing, shouts of the officers
Making me mount the ladder and see
No-mans land for the first time.
Is this what I am fighting for?
Before I could think anymore,
A punch in the chest drops me to the
Dirt, soldiers treading on me.
I cannot breathe and I want to sleep.
I am far from home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem