In East Nuristan
The FOB named
For the fallen
Is a bad omen
For the rising.
Men slid down
The mountain.
With the snow,
Beads dripping
Icy blood into
The glacial waters
Of the Bashgal.
The river fed
The valley below.
Men fed bullets
Into magazines,
Into weapons,
Into wounds.
As the dead
Were the fed
Into Apaches.
To Bagram,
To Germany,
To Walter Reed.
No Chinooks;
Only single
Blade space.
No banks,
Only buddy
Transfusions.
Out and In.
Surging trade,
Cash, Blood,
Adrenaline,
Democracy.
Nothing lasts.
Not the funds,
Not the shura,
And not peace.
As they tried
To defend the
Indefensible.
From a fishbowl
Between two
Dying worlds.
