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Born again from the silence,
from the tha-pockata quiet,
descending, descending to earth
and torn from the womb
into the roto-chop airwash
and light, sound, fire, screams.
Footpaths run, searching cover
from whistling molten streamers,
bass drum thumping mortar bursts,
trip lines, land mines and bunji sticks.
Breathe, breathe, breathe the smoke,
feel the burn, taste the stench,
but run damn it, run to the trees
beneath the staccato calvary shadows
as airborne salvation disappears
over the trees... gone.
Alone, side by side alone,
speaking in bullets, screaming in fire
with M16 voices, hand grenade song.
Slow motion dancing, projectile zing
to the flashing strobe of AK47
and death. Death tumbles, bleeding,
screaming, smoking moans, then silent.
Silence owns you as you return
to the tha-pockata quiet womb,
descending, descending to darkness...