"In an Asian River:"

Copyright:1999 Emanuel Seafont

Adrift on the still grey mists of morning,
on the river, cold, serene.
No form, nor shape, unsoftened,
in this dream. This frightening dream.

No sound, save an eerie murmur.
No perspective, just a paling grey.
It seemed the world was made of nothing.
It seemed to be so far away.

No sounds of life, no children laughing
No flop of fishes on the run.
No wild fowl flapping cross the water.
It seemed the world and I were one.

This softest dream. So cool, refreshing,
this ghostly journey, I'd begun
to find the killers in the marshes,
to kill them all, and save not one.

And then the monster bore down on us,
with giant legs astride the path.
The waters even started trembling.
Warning of an aftermath.

The flash of rifles from the jungle,
and volleys from the bridge above.
Two men fell, one right beside me,
he'd become a snow white dove.

They'd send his tags back to his family.
They'd say he'd done his duty well.
They'd glorify this war he'd fought in
Oh how the livings chests would swell.

Someone died. Plucked like a petal.
Others too would meet that fate,
and someone, somewhere casts more medals,
not worn, but stacked at heavens gate.

And they would send more young men forward,
all to fight anothers war.
And they would die, and thousands follow
and when they died, ten thousand more.

And as they lay them in their caskets,
all their gold braid shining bright,
the Generals back home, stir from sleeping,
dreaming up another fight.

They'd dress the dead with pomp and glory.
A smarter sight is seldom seen
and they'd use cotton waste, and hessian,
to fill out where their legs had been.

Oh don't you cry, wives and mothers
Think of the glory, these brave lads bring.
Give freely of your sons, your lovers
The Generals hardly felt a thing.

Send them all your sons, your brothers,
send them all your fathers too.
Dig em out, from kids to lovers.
They will take them all. There's still too few.

The more we lose, the greater glory.
It matters not for whom they die.
Another page, in life's great story,
It all started with a bloody lie.

Emanuel Seafont

'Old Soldier of the streets.'

An old khaki great coat, and a rag for a hat,
Brown paper wrapped bottle, and old sacking bag.
The marching bands gone now, no doubt about that,
No evidence of past days, 'cept a worn out dog-tag.

There was though, a legacy, and it caused folks to stare,
Two empty pants legs, and an old wheel chair.
They called these men Veterans, of some long gone war.
The fighting was over now, for them, that's for sure.

But Ben had two medals, once golden and bright.
But they'd long lost their lustre, since he'd lost his sight.
His war now was living, since his legs had both gone,
His eyes had been darkened, and he lived all alone.

There had once been a loved one, and two kids he'd recall.
Where now there was nothing. Bloody war took them all.
Some times he'd watch, as soldiers marched by.
The thrill of the bands, but no life in his eyes.

He imagined them there, in clean jungle greens,
A picture he prized, of men, like machines.
Down the streets they would march, and then fade away,
Oblivious all, to his own black beret.

He'd touch those old medals. He'd give them a rub.
They were no good to him, but might fetch two bucks at the pub.

He once went to the cenotaph, though he couldn't see,
And he prayed for the fallen. "God, why wasn't it me."

Emanuel Seafont.