A Soldier's Song

By Donna Nongkhlaw

He carefully calculates the measurements,

Lest his handiwork should be rejected again;

Hammer, gauge, chisel and sand,

All laid within the reach of his hands.

Skilfully apply all the laws of ballistics,

Velocity and recoil, to how the firing pin hits;

All must fit well in the soldering spot,

Enhancing the wounding of a single shot.

What goes through his head when finally done,

Does he pity the man who will be holding his gun;

Does he sense the wailing of the impending doom,

Has he ever seen the sight of an exit wound?

No rational reason this heart can derive,

The point and the time that made him decide;

A lifetime to spend with every draw of his breath,

An artist at work in the manufacture of death.

But I will drink from this cup and carry this weight,

I will march and proceed to Valhalla's Gates;

In defending your honour these knees will not yield,

What pride brings my wounds when my nation is shielded.

By Donna Nongkhlaw