A recurrent image is a fragment of life.
In the midst of it, I stand.The sorrow of soldiers rolls down my tongue and I taste the innocence.
Muffled bullet shots pierce through my ears.
Corpses of fallen soldiers surround me.
The wretched scent of purified blood looms through the blackened air.
Smoke twirls ahead irritating my features; my eyes, my nose. I grasp for breath.
My wife Nadia and daughter Luna worrying about my life in our NYC apartment shadows into my thoughts.
Sense of burned memories. In the midst of it, I stand.
“C’mon maggots, Getta move on it!” the commander’s eerie voice echoes through the field.
My hardened stone of imagination,
will not separate my confinement to this war.
These desires of disappearing in midair trampled through my anemic body.
I reminisce the momentum of my strength from Little Dave, he of whom I stare into the mirror, mesmerized.
I’ll never forget him to know where he’s gone and what lead him here.
My quivering fingers shape around the hands of the rifle in which I behold,
I’m ready to embrace the today’s risk upon my life.
“Kad nesto pocnes, uvijek zavrsi.” When you start something, always finish it.
As the night broadened with daylight, I listened to it say, it’s almost over.
We are set to go, me and my army of one.
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