The Enemy
Once a soldier wounded,
Wandered aimless to a villa,
And there expired, to awake
By the tender ministrations,
Of a womans,
Strong and certain hand's.
Through the week,
His strength returned,
And through the week
They spoke of hate and war and hate,
And it was then, he discovered
She had had a son,
Whom the army took and broke,
And killed,
And then forgot.
She showed him the medal
Given for his valour
Traded for his soul;
And then she wept
Without end.
Still she fed and
Cared for his wound's,
But she wouldn't talk
Or even look into his eye's, or face,
Just cried and feared,
That he, the enemy,
Would be found in her house.
He thought and worried,
For the week that followed
That he had met her son in battle,
Screaming, as he murdered;
And he woke in fear, screaming
With her there, soothing him
As though he were a baby,
For he was a child,
Traumatised and torn.
Then came the night
He took a knife,
To his wrist's and belly,
And once again, in secrecy
She saved him
From her people,
One more time,
But now,
A friend from childhood,
Who had become a doctor
Knew as well,
And she was afraid.
In the week that followed,
Her anger gained, she grew colder
And each passing hour
Was a torment, waiting,
As he himself grew certain:
She who saved him twice,
Would kill him then,
Or give him to her people,
And he was afraid—
Though more than this,
He dearly wished
To tell to her,
He understood, and
All he wanted
Was her safety, in a world
Torn by the war.
Finally, the tension broke
And she spoke to him, once again,
And it was then,
That he cryed and blubbered,
Apologised and stuttered
Out a claim, of allegience, to her
As his saviour,
Who by his honour,
And for her virtue,
He would keep forever
From all the harm's
That life or war could ever bring;
She laughed and told him
All she'd done to survive in war
And, ridiculed him as soldier,
With anger, so intense
And boiling, in her hate
At him
And them
And everything,
And nothing left,
But to save a stupid murderer,
Stupid, like her child, gone.
And only her screaming,
Weeping,
Hell and fury
As he held her, as he cryed
Silently, without a word;
The war ended.
He's eightyseven now,
She's five year's in the grave;
But he loved her everyday
And always will,
For it is she that taught him courage—
She that taught him life.
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