I saw him smoke a cigar
I saw him smoke a cigar
and the binoculars
brought him here with me.
His cap was at a rakish angle
and sweat from the early morning sun,
was running down his face.
He stood in his tank’s open hatch
and gestured and laughed
with a comrade.
It was like a moment of peace,
but my Ratel’s gun
send a deadly shell at point blank range.
He was no more and splattered
and just another casualty of war
and burning white phosphor decimated
the enemy tank’s entire crew.
poem by Gert Strydom
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