by Bhuwan Thapaliya
No glass in the windows
a shell hole in the roof
wretched tanks, old
fighter –jets and rust- kissed guns
lie around
as discarded toys.
In the distance
Traits of dust
Rises from
Anglo-American vehicles
Running after
Taliban cocoons.
Fighter –bombers
Passes overhead repeatedly
Cough- cold- and
Stomatch bug rules.
Nearby,
a seven year old child
picks up
dried animal droppings
-the wild trees
are gone.
Hills are all
barren brown
- chocked with pebbles and mud
is the Kukcha river’s throat.
American soldiers marches on
the memory of Vietnam still
hangs heavily on their core.
This poem makes the experience very real.
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