You, with your neat picket fence
And freshly mown lawn.
Where only the occasional daisy
Pokes through.

Sedately content
You survey your domain.

While I, ignored by the passing thrall
I sit on this dusty plain
My withered limbs
Say it all

Too sick to move
I await Kismet.

As far as the eye can see
Caught in the dying sun’s rays
The glint and glitter
Of the death that surrounds me

Thousands of miles away
You decide my fate.

‘Tis not gold that’s a lying
But the brass casing’s
Left in pitiful piles
From the lead that’s been flying

Too scared to close my eyes
Should I not wake.

The sky fills with death
While the ground trembles
No trace they’ll find
Of my insignificant bones

Ramadan’s done
‘Tis the time of Christ.

All this
While you reach for your morning coffee.
As I lay dying
On the road to Kandahar