The Hill Where Charlie Sleeps Poem by Natasa To

The jungle breathed in wounded mist,
Beneath the thunder's iron cry,
Young soldiers carved their names in dust
And watched the burning midnight sky.

Charlie Hill was red that dawn,
Not from earth, but blood and flame,
Each falling brother left behind
A mother whispering his name.

The radio cracked through monsoon rain,
A trembling voice, then silence deep,
While somewhere in the shattered dark
A lonely bugle mourned the sleep.

The river carried helmets south,
Past broken trees and ghostly light,
And every wind through bamboo leaves
Still sounds like footsteps in the night.

One man remained beside the hill,
Eyes full of smoke, hands stained with clay,
He spoke no word when morning came —
Only saluted the dead away.

Now decades drift like drifting fog,
Yet old men pause when songs begin,
For Charlie is not just a place —
It lives beneath their weathered skin.

And when the evening incense burns,
The lost return through memory's fire,
Marching softly through the rain
To the song that never tires.