They were the dark days, <br />of nineteen-sixty-seven, <br />he heard the call, so deafening, <br />though it did not affect him, <br />as these people were not his, <br />but questions did not then arise, <br />nor later, between the dreams <br />of joining up with Les Légionnaires, <br />daredevils with great skills, <br />and license, to kill the evildoers. <br /> <br />It wasn't much, his effort, really <br />the gratitude demanded extra, <br />protection of a guest from foreign lands, <br />six days, officially, really seven though, <br />it was concluded in a heap of hollow words. <br /> <br />On a green bus, the journey home, <br />clutching on jean-clad knees <br />a cardboard satchel bearing proof <br />of everlasting and historic glory, <br />the signatures of General Dayan <br />and garlic breathing Yitzak Rabin, <br />a little thing to show the grandkids, <br />at various times and ages, again, <br />and then perhaps again once more.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-short-war/
