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Son of Seoul
SON OF SEOUL
Child presses sweet head to her,
While mother holds fast to him
Man busses forehead, soft lips tight
‘Gainst acorn-colored skin.
From ashes G.I. soldiers rose
To souls of Seoul set free.
Much taller than the rest, one stood
‘Bove war-torched Calvary.
And drifting now to streets of home
And bird-song tones of voice,
Her heart aches for freedom sounds.
Her sentence, Life, was choice.
Hiding loneliness in a treasure chest
Her soldier man won't find,
She forever bleeds for Seoul's sweet spice
to free her captured mind.
This child on her lap had been
Her altar-offering hope
That life could rupture forth again
Through scourge of blood and smoke.
But images of her home dissolve
As Soldier-shell draws in
And presses tight dead lips against
Her acorn-colored skin.
Copyright ©
Gwen Banta
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