A farmer watches crops burn,
A gold-straw roof engulfed in zippo-fire,
Standing livestock slaughtered like cannon fodder.
A camera shoots at scorched children
Who run from this profitable apocalypse.
His burned tongue cannot describe
The nightmare inferno that has awoken.
Words do not belong in a place like this;
It would offend the silence of the flames.
The farmer has no name,
No fear of communism,
No manifest privilege
Or Ivy League education, or a TV screen
To see the world in perspective;
To understand why freedom’s children
Stole his independence
And erased his history:
His voice.
Silence is broken by the snapback
Of a loaded rifle.
Face to face
He studies him with empty eyes:
They are little more than children
From a primitive world.
He’s a communist! His silence proves it!
You VC! You VC!
He doesn’t make a sound
As fire burns the old world,
As ash begins to fall on the ground,
Mixes with the dirt and the red earth:
The graveyard of their crimes.
The graveyard of youth.
When the day came to Danang
Overlords came disguised as liberators,
When thunder rolled over Hanoi
Warm rain mixed in with tears,
When napalm fell in waves of fire
Perfume waters ran orange,
When innocence was conditioned
It came to terrorise innocence.
And the quiet VC marched in a quiet VC columns
To the beat of native drums.
About the Creator
Donald Quixote
Hopeless romantic,
adventurer in paradox;
so it goes
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Miniature Mind Musings #8:
Recently, I spoke with a family member who I struggled to catch up with for a longer timespan than I would’ve liked and what struck me was how societal templates filled in on successive days routinely suck our time into a vacuum of seemingly infernal deficiency.
By The Dani Writer5 days ago in Longevity
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