A Letter for Maria...

The war was cold,
Like others it was brutal,
There were guns, and machines,
Crushing the very bodies of men,
And then I found relief,
I could go home,
Someone else had volunteered,
The soldier beside me,
Stuffed a letter into my pockets,
“A letter for Maria…” he said.

The jet plane sped home,
White clouds combing my hair,
And stork birds of fairytales,
Carrying babies in baskets,
The name tags flying ‘bout in air,
A dream on the plane…
The actual jingling of my dog- tag,
A man beside me…his eyes closed,
Only momentary…shivered back to life…
Maybe it was a bullet, or a bomb,
That killed his friend, which woke him…
Soldiers never cry…they put stones,
Stones that stop the bleeding heart,
From pumping blood to the wounds,
Of warfare etched deep within,
That no knife can meditate on.

Home at last…a band of smiling faces,
Gay expressions ready to receive,
These are the people I called my friends,
These are souls once I had words for…
But today I have to be silent…
For home is my prayer ground…
In its silence I might pay homage,
To fellow soldiers whose body have turned cold,
As I walk down the jet plane,
I see the coffins, loaded onto a truck,
As if they were a burden…the coffin loader,
Lifting the dead weight without a smile,
Sweat trickling down his forehead,
And his raw muscles bulging with strain…
Seeger had sung about flowers,
And about men at war, but we,
Those who’ve heard its noises,
Only wish for silence- no songs, no music,
No speeches or preaching, letting me,
Know how painful it is- for I know.

A thought strikes my mind,
An image rather, a picture of urgency,
Fighting soldier stuffing two pieces,
Of paper into my pocket…I haven’t
Changed my trousers…I carry the war,
To my home- the letter still tucked in,
The “Letter for Maria.”

Maria, you live by a distant street,
Where the language is not my own,
To your home I take a cab- its $12,
An unfair charge, if you’d ask me…
And there you stand by the window,
I have a letter for you…

The door bell is loud…
It’s a screaming thing that gnaws my heart,
And a man opens your door…
He is young and handsome…no dirt,
No blood, no pain, no sweat, and no wounds,
He is a man…not a thing to be shot at,
Not an object coffined, or carried,
He is alive- but I, and my brothers,
We were dead the moment we took the gun,
And gave our honor to those like you,
That we’d defend, that we’d serve…

I watch you run down the stairs,
He must have loved you…
My friend must have taken many moments,
To fabricate a message for you…
To let you know about his bleeding heart,
And now smile to myself-
Another man’s wife…and he, no man,
But a count, a star, a name on a wall…
Maria, you will never have to visit,
The black walls of wailing and lament,
I won’t hurt you…my hands are cold,
You stare at me…I smile,
And walk away…with treasure in my pockets,
“A letter for Maria.”