We took back a village today.
Not much going on:
A few broken windows,
A burned-out car or two,
And one poor sap of a teenage soldier,
Hands on his head, crying out for Mum and Dad.
A broken old man emerges,
Shaking his fist and shouting ‘Kill them all.’
Another sits thoughtfully by the stream,
Praying for a missing child.
Our flag, mounted on a captured tank,
Flaps, in its own kind of triumph,
Lazily, against the wind.