The Parade

I remember us passing
in a parade
where we were receiving honour;

the nightmare plays off in front of me
of people
that will never again be living
and are unpaid for their deeds:

What remains
when a mortar bomb falls like thunder
from the sky
and explodes with a hell of a bang,

how broken a body becomes
when it receives the deadly explosion
of a landmine
that does its thing like a giant trap,

the bits of ash
where a flaming star lands
when a rocket propelled grenade goes off,

scorched black meat
where a tank’s projectile
hits like a ray of lightning,

a man that had been shot out of his boots
where a bullet pierced his body
and the puddle of blood in which he lies,

the shattering and the truncation
that a hand grenade brings,
how easy death strikes at anyone

and all of these people
now are forgotten and buried
until they stand before the Godly commander.

by Gert Strydom

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