David Hines (hradzka) wrote,
David Hines
hradzka

APED: "nostalgia"

Hey, remember when I said it'd be light stuff for the rest of the week? Apparently, not so much.

In Congo, there's a small man waiting by his home's front door.
His middle age is coming on. He feels it more and more.
The little aches. His lower back. His vision, somewhat dimmed.
His knee is gone, so he can't run. Nothing special, him.
You wouldn't think to look at him that he'd been great before,
back when he slaughtered Tutsi in the Hutu-Tutsi War.

He still has his panga. And he'd used it, hard and well.
On hands, and feet, and lips and tongue -- of course, on necks as well.
Sometimes he takes the cold steel down, and cradles it at night.
And thinks back to his days of youth, and that first flush of might --
he'd give up nearly anything to go back then once more,
back when he slaughtered Tutsi in the Hutu-Tutsi War.

Was it a war? he wonders now. Some didn't dare fight back.
They cowered, begged. They tried to plead with him as he'd attack.
That only made it better, though. And then he cut them down.
Ferocity had won for him a measure of renown.
He'd done the sort of mighty deeds that live in Rwandan lore,
back when he slaughtered Tutsi in the Hutu-Tutsi War.

He killed them, too, in Congo. But those killings couldn't sate.
No compare -- none! -- to before, the stored-up years of hate.
Their girls drank milk. That must explain the softness of their skins.
He'd give it all to just go back and feel that skin again,
and hear their cries of terror as he pushed them to the floor,
back when he slaughtered Tutsi in the Hutu-Tutsi War.

Interahamwe! Just a name. But it meant so much more.
The guns are getting closer. So he waits there, by his door.
Let the others panic. Let them pack and take their flight.
He can't run, and so he waits. The flames are growing bright.
Nkunda's men are coming, and he knows he'll answer for
the Tutsi that he slaughtered in the Hutu-Tutsi War.
Tags: a poem every day
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