I walk down the street with rifle and pack,
With sweat trickling down the small of my back,
We have been moving for many a mile,
Not always in staggered or single file.

We hide with every vehicle driving past,
Unwittingly passing us fast,
After each one we continue in the dark,
And every house seams to bark.

As our feet tread onward I turn my face,
And am reminded of another place,
One fondly held in my past,
And in my memory it will forever last.

The arid surroundings have seen its fill of fights,
So much that there’s no power for lights,
And above this place of pain,
Are the flashing lights of a holiday plane.

I wonder what they see when they look down.
Do they see their countrymen covered in brown?
The dust coated faces looking back,
Wishing them a good time on their holiday pack.