Henry Moon, 'Memorial Day'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Memorial Day

Fearful, we edge along the wattle wall,
Daubed with graffito, 'USA go home!'
Blink through dark glasses at the sun's fireball
Savagely gleaming on the mosque dome.
We wait in silence. Till the chopper blades
Herald live rocket fire; cries, now; alarms!
Men scatter; women amble; stray grenades
Dispense us of the need to fill out forms.

Fifty lie dead - though we're told not to count;
Told just to say that we were fired upon.
Non-entries in some end-of-year account,
Sub-human non-statistics every one.
Did one in fifty merit such a fate?
Will gutter tactics snuff out their home fire?
If five among them managed to escape,
Avenging fifty is their sole desire!

An ill wind through the Kansas of the poor,
The draft will make the educated gasp:
More fond farewells; another duty tour
Bereft of scions of the ruling wasps.
Do you breed fodder for the chickenhawks?
Rise up, transcend your past; don't remain numb.
When your boy asks you, just tell him to walk
To Canada; to Europe; asylum!
Or turn and tell your children they are blessed,
Footnotes in the never-ending story:
"The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori."

by Henry Moon