THE WOUNDED AND THE DEAD
I was just a child,
When they sent me to Vietnam;
The fateful day I landed there,
Reality hit me like a bomb.
I saw the remains of a human being,
Like a pile of rags in the street,
And innocent children blown away,
with mines beneath their feet.
I still remember the poor soldier,
That in the confusion lost his mind,
Only then to lose his life,
As he was left behind.
I saw the wounded and the dead,
Trying to identify boys that had no face,
I heard comrades cry for their mothers,
Don’t let me die in this foreign place.
With a fear that’s all consuming,
Looking for a place to hide,
I saw men pull down on their helmets,
And try curling up inside.
When surrounded by the enemy,
I called in artillery over my own head,
In the morning there was nothing left,
As I alone walked through the dead.
Fighting for an unknown cause,
I still can’t understand why,
In the jungles of Vietnam,
So many soldiers had to die.
All those images still haunt me,
As if it were yesterday,
Remembering all those brave young men,
And the price they had to pay.
I’ve seen the wounded and the dead,
And though our Country’s free,
I remain a prisoner of war,
Being tortured by its memory.
©Copyright 2002 by Chris Woolnough