Pool_1

Many lived, but none survived. In the present, some will be asked to stroll romantically under the stars. Most will not. Never. Those few who do, will remember, and they will weep. Beautiful and reasoned words, synthesized empathic apologies, and healing strokes of well meaning women will not blunt this pain nor soften those scars. They are scars inflicted on men of the infantry who were hunted and exposed by the moon. They, mere boys whose fledgling humanity was lost in practiced leaps into shadows, shadows of trees of somewhere else, not home, somewhere between Plei Me and Chu Pong. Night shadows as wombs, God! From each a silent prayer, "Who will deliver me?" Just past twenty three hundred hours, the still air offended with it's heat. Already there were four young men dead and seven severely wounded. No help was imminent. Saviors, if there were to be any, were way far away. This was going to be a long night. What ever else, stay within the shadow of your tree and don't breathe too loudly. There are snipers everywhere. Hush falls as shadows become home to men who look upon reflection as they would upon death. And, as with death, always, it will be the last rest they will ever know. Io, whose mistress are you? She only reminds him, cradling his head within her breasts, gently stroking his hair, "Shhhhh. Come on, sleep, baby, sleep. It's over. Shhhhh. Come on. You're home now." But the moon is still throwing shadows and it is so quiet. Who will cry out next?