The little red roses strewn lay vulgarly open for the men’s boots br Marching on mud stained death br Their boots squelching on that which once lived br The last of them were almost gone, br The plains were empty of the enemy and the dogs br It was time to pay the homage br br Does the gender make much of a difference to a corpse? br So please don’t mind the courtesies br We can’t afford such luxuries br Stamp on us. The dawn has your victory. br Call the band. March on. We wouldn’t care br Our little faces marked with bullets could be disturbing. br But it isn’t much. A head or a tooth missing doesn’t make much difference now. br br My mind now sits on that tree next to the railway. br I was born not far from it. br And that’s the play ground were I first kicked the brown earth br Thick brown dust rising like a cloud of smoke from a barrel. br Don’t make a big deal of telling it to Mama. br Mothers usually have an appetite for danger. br br But there would be a rose garden left in front of my house. br The clouds will take care of them. br And leave them to the winds. br It’s time for them to turn wild. br But if you go there before it does br Pluck one for me. br Wrap it softly and give to her. br The picture is in my pocket along with her address. br I kept it there today morning br I knew this is the last day I would kick the dust br Brown dust mixed with gun powder.