To Carthage <br />then you came <br /> <br />and other fabled places <br /> <br />seen now only <br />through the lens <br />of War. <br /> <br />Here <br />you are <br />in simple black & white <br /> <br />playing football <br />with scrunched up rags <br /> <br />camouflage tanks <br />your only spectators <br /> <br />the horizon <br />a thin cruel line <br />of infinity. <br /> <br />Desert rats <br />the thing of history books <br />to come <br /> <br />now only <br />a bunch of laughing lads. <br /> <br />The desert <br />everywhere about you. <br /> <br />Young boys <br />pretending to be young men <br />pretending to be soldiers <br /> <br />and not <br />succeeding. <br /> <br />This <br />a game <br />played <br />for real. <br /> <br />War has made you <br />so. <br /> <br />I show you <br />you <br /> <br />again & again <br />wearing the many faces <br />that you were. <br /> <br />Death lurks <br />in every face <br /> <br />looks out of <br />your eyes <br /> <br />with the knowledge <br />that it could be <br /> <br />you now <br /> <br />you <br />this time. <br /> <br />Photos <br />taken then <br /> <br />Time <br />stopped still. <br /> <br />I see so many <br />bright eyed young man. <br /> <br />Their youth <br />their most notable feature. <br /> <br />“Dead...dead...dead! ” <br />you intone <br /> <br />in place of names <br /> <br />as if it hurt <br />to name them. <br /> <br />But I know <br />from other times <br /> <br />that this dead man <br />is John. <br /> <br />This one Fred <br />your best best friend. <br /> <br />Even now you talk of him <br />as if he could walk in the door <br /> <br />at any time. <br /> <br />The door <br />forever closed <br /> <br />The last photo <br />shows <br /> <br />an insect <br />crawling <br /> <br />in a dead <br />animal’s skull.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-carthage-then-you-came-for-lyn/
