The last poem was pretty well received, so I decided to inflict another one on you. As some of you already know, my son is in Iraq with the Army. This poem is for all those who have, or have lost, someone in that conflict.
Your room is as you left it.
The football jerseys of your heroes,
a tapestry of red, white, and blue
hang in your closet mutely awaiting your return.
As the hour moves to vespers,
the dying light stains the glass,
the room glows red and gold.
In a land where the cross is kept always well hidden
you march the sand, while ever silently behind
Mohammed walks arm in arm with the black robed reaper,
carrying your blood in a grail of iron they balance between them,
waiting to cross your path and claim you for their own
as Mohammed pours your blood upon the sand.
The dying light illuminates the rosary and Bible you left behind,
not permitted in the land of Mohammed,
the land of wailing sand and wailing prayers
where you have gone to fight for someone else’s cause.
For it has always been and ever shall be
the body and blood of the Young that are sacrificed
to the hatred of the Old.
–Stephen P. Smith