The cadence of sandaled feet,
... horses hooves and carts replete
with armaments of war
... stir desolate sands, on the way
to conquer and enslave
a tribal nation's poor.
Hot winds swirl the dusty sand
across this ancient foreign land
Stinging face, blinding eyes.
After battles, countless dead
lay on the ground, now blood red
from wounds incurred. The sighs
of dying enemies stir the air
as victors gather up their share
of battlefield rewards.
Then a quiet slow retreat,
Sands again stirred by their feet,
blood dripping from their swords.


And now the sands are stirred again
in this place called Afghanistan
by armoured beasts of war.
This time not to enslave, but free
And provide a sense of liberty
to a tribal nation's poor.
No large scale battles against a foe,
hidden behind every door,
bombs explode as troops walk on.
Death rains from the air, and still
they always seem to find the will
to fight until the mission's done.
Ready to lend a helping hand
and take a non-militaristic stand
to watch as rights and freedom unfold.
Their marching boots yet disturb the sands
of time upon this ancient land,
Remains of warriors centuries old.

Joseph A. Garrie,
ZOOMER of ORTONA UNIT
©2011