I am hearing the monks again
Their silent screams in the streets of Saigon
I thought they would leave me alone
But I am haunted by their aura
The bamboo vipers
And the smile of the tigers
Deep in the primordial
Why do they infect my soul?
Why can I let them be and they me?
It wasn’t even my war.
I was too young to know
The inequities of war
Yet the birds fall around my feet
Every time I smell burning flesh
Perhaps I am too old for this skin of mine
A young man told me tonight
That he recognized me as a long lost grandfather
From his Mayan roots
Did I sacrifice other men to please the God’s?
Or was I sacrificed and am now twice haunted.
Gooseflesh. The hair on my neck stands ups.
But what about the monks?