A Plea From Babylon

Desert sand sips on western blood. Life dwindled on a dust storm. The Mid-East is drunk; smashed on the substance of juvenile lives. Baghdad staggers and stomachs churn; a harsh place with no feeling for western existence. Solemn voices, from Muslim mosques – unintentionally, moan nature’s loss. Today, youth is sacrifice. Heroes they called us, and heroes we are, but heroes to whom? Flesh for the worms in our tombs. Kabul is necessary; let freedom hold a persistent sway, but why must I die in Baghdad this day? God, let me die a sweet death; let my thoughts pursue pleasant memories until the end. Let me go thinking of love, laughter and allies. Let not Baghdad steal my breath; in this cruel city, I will not die.