As we grow older, We, little by little, feel colder. However, we also get bolder: For, being granted a licence to moulder, Whilst fighting amnesia and sciatica. We don't care about weeping on anybody else's shoulder. We just hope on to soldier Like the Marine on the Afghan border. He decides to get on the list of Purple Heart winners By becoming bolder and bolder Fighting his guerrilla brother At midnight with her garb shining psychedelic technicolor.
The Marine's Sister is a Greenwich Villager. A hippie painter, She sketches and colours the khaki-clad Taliban battler Who @ dawn places a flower Behind his right ear and like a ghostly figure Composes poems + songs and becomes a dancer But @ dawn the Pakistani pray-er fights like a princely prancer. Although he knows that the end may be near, He has no fear Despite the danger Of becoming cannon fodder For as long as he fights like a Himalayan tiger, A hitter/runner, He is, as he melts away in the ether, An elusive creature. -- Martinho de Souza -