Poetry

The AK-47 bullet
hangs as a pendant
with dog tags around my neck
(it could have been a memento
made of gold from you,
but our love is through,
shattered into pieces)
and it swings to and thro
while I bend to wash my face
in the cold water of the stream

enemy boot tracks
lay plastered in the mud
on the riverbank and in the stream
I spot two dots, barely showing eyes
where a crocodile drifts on the prowl

and this morning the bush, the river
smells different, somewhat peaceful
as if no man has ever wandered here
but the sub-machinegun
next to me, keeps reminding me
that death lurks everywhere.