A view from Babylon

Desert sand sips on western blood.
Life dwindled on a dust storm.
 The Mid-East is drunk;
smashed on the substance of juvenile lives.
Baghdad staggers and stomachs churn;
a harsh place with no feeling for western existence.
Solemn voices, from Muslim mosques –
 unintentionally, moan nature’s loss.
Today, youth is sacrifice.

Heroes they called us,
and heroes we are,
but heroes to whom?
Flesh for the worms in our tombs.
Kabul is necessary;
 let freedom hold a persistent sway,
but why must I die in Baghdad this day?

God, let me die a sweet death;
let my thoughts pursue pleasant memories until the end.
Let me go thinking of love, laughter and allies.
Let not Baghdad steal my breath;
in this cruel city, I will not die.