The future dreams
of your children,
snuffed out
by governments' decree,
and you sliding down
almost in slow motion,
to the appointment
with terminal destiny.

Your oriental face
pillowed on bamboo leaves,
crackling dry,
like your veins,
now drained
of your life force,
pouring back down
sucked up
by the thirsty land.

In the trembling silence
of the gunshots,
looking down
at the chrysalis
of your life,
for you no rebirth
in the lush green fields,
but as we turned
and walked away,
I felt somehow
that in the end
you had won.

© John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR