Poem: First Degree Burns

First Degree Burns

Why are we here? I don’t want to be here. Are we mere puppets?
Why are the corpses of soldiers we knew now riddled by a thousand bullets?
The fingers of death rip through the flesh of a young soldier.
His black blood rains on me. I can taste it in my mouth.
He embraces the elephant graveyard. He won’t get up. He’s gone.
The corpse lies by my side, exhibiting the shredded machinery of the dead man.
I think to myself, was he ready? Was this his moment of truth? Was he afraid?
I grit my teeth and look away as another receives his ticket on the black train.
Death lurks behind every tree. He has his hands full tonight. Why can’t you just disappear?

Asking the questions doesn’t help our souls now, surrounded by the constant colours crimson.
I hold my rifle closer to my chest and shut my eyes, my life on ransom.
I sink in the quagmire, trying not to listen to the shrills of dying souls.
Yesterday we were happy, laughing, joking. Not dying. There are no jokes today.
The powers that be ordered us into the killing fields of blood and mud.
Today they laugh and drink their coffee as we drink our blood.
Here we are, no escape. Take cover from death’s head, lurking in the treetops.
Death’s bell is ringing for us now, loud like angry mobs.
We fall as Dies Irae sounds. How much more can we endure?

A jet roars above and drops its deadly payload of hell over us.
The evening erupts in the brightest darkness. Why are they burning their own?
A hundred yells fill the woods and turn into the last moans of agony.
The flame sweeps past me. The soldier by me isn’t as lucky.
Paralysed with terror, I watch the flame engulf him and devour his clothes.
His eyes roll as his face shrivels, his flesh melting in the heat of the fiery killer.
Motionless I lay, watching a scream erupt from his scorched lips as he stands up for the last time.
His charred corpse twitches and falls limp on me. The stench overwhelms my senses.
Ardent men fall like corn under the sickle. Is it just me amidst the scorched carnage?
It’s too much. I can’t stand it. Waterfalls begin to flow as I stand up and face the gates.


JANI HELLE
April 1st 2001