I bear in mind the warmth.
A dry, suffocating torrent.
The blazing, burning solar
baking the tarmac.
No clouds, no bushes,
only a furnace of hate.
I really feel the hate.
I bear in mind the warmth.
I bear in mind the mud.
Filling our nostrils, caking our mouths.
It rained from the sky
and rose from the bottom.
With each flip of the tire
and step of the foot there was mud.
Mud, in every single place mud.
I bear in mind the heaviness.
The helmet urgent on my head,
the armor squeezing my chest.
I bear in mind the burden of life and dying
on the finish of our weapons.
I bear in mind the worry.
Aboard the eight-wheeled coffin,
surrounded by a skinny defend of metal.
The worry of the streets.
The worry of the smiling folks.
The worry of no return.
I bear in mind their faces.
So younger and so stoic.
Why couldn’t they’ve been outdated males?
Not the younger.
Not the younger who would by no means develop outdated.
I bear in mind their faces.
I can not overlook their faces.
I bear in mind the loss.
The searing ache of the unfilled boots,
the solemn speeches,
the lowered ramp and the flag-draped coffin.
A gap so deep in my coronary heart
solely God might fill it.
I bear in mind the letters.
Written once more, and once more,
and once more, and once more.
When will the letters cease?
Why have been they so younger and stoic
and courageous and caring?
What is going to I say this time?
I bear in mind the sorrow.
The sound of “Faucets” on the hillside
coated with the graves of heroes.
A tearful widow, a weeping youngster,
a folded flag.
I bear in mind the sorrow
so clearly.
Their shadows develop dim
and I struggle to recollect.
Their tales develop outdated
and I need to struggle to recollect.
They gave all the pieces.
The least I can do is bear in mind.
I bear in mind. I need to bear in mind.
I need to all the time bear in mind.
