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Murder? ©

Baba
Stewarton, Scotland
2004

Brought to foreign borders you will kill the foreign son
Their bodies heaped like mountains through which bloody rivers run
Leave them dead upon the land: the sun their bones will bleach
You'll school them in such savagery such lessons you will teach

You're now released upon his land, a land he calls his home
You'll flush him out from every hole and Death will freely roam
A dot upon the landscape without form or even limb
Growing ever closer to the fate awaiting him

You're lying in the tall grass with your weapon in the aim
A scene rehearsed a thousand times but now it is no game
Expel your breath, relax as taught: prepare to make your kill
You've never taken life before, just practiced, honed your skill

Your target now before you is unaware that you are there
Blended to your background you fix him in your stare
You sense from his appearance that he hasn't soldiered long
Everything about him screams he's out of place and wrong

Sauntering with weapon slung from drooping burdened shoulder
He is the very model of his conscript army's soldier
His hands are in his pockets as he walks in open ground
By contrast you are hiding as you chamber lethal round

Professionally drilled, you are now skilled, on how to end his life
Now you pause, reflect on him: perhaps he has a wife?
Do you have the moral right, his future years to steal
This fate upon his family curse and set your fatal seal

He represents his nation's youth: that you will grimly reap
You will cause a flood of tears from countless eyes to weep
Questioned on your judgement day the answer you provide
Will your Blessed maker see your shame, or naked pride?

Your comrades scattered all around are not in mortal danger
Miserable wretchéd little man: killing is a stranger
Lower your arms and let him pass, pride yourself you could have
If he'd shown the warrior's gait you know you surely would have


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