Ac Her Forþ Beraò; Fugelas Singaò, Gylleò Grœghama Poem by Gert Strydom

Gnashing enemy tanks are coming on
while the Ratel-90 stands still
and many things
goes through my mind.

The shot sounds thundering
and for a moment I am blinded
by smoke, dust and giant flames
that devours things.

The redneck is still shooting
through branches and bushes
with the front machinegun
and it can cost his life

but he shoots on like a machine
and feeds the ammunition belt
and I let the driver pull him in
and he’s again aboard

locked behind armoured steel
where he curses and takes out his rage
and shoot from within
and he speaks a foreign tongue:

“Ac her forþ beraò;
fugelas singaò,
gylleò grœghama”

We drive away with speed
and stop and shoot and drive again
and let projectiles
find their targets deadly

and so we continue for hours
that drag into days
and around us the enemy is shot out

and what is not burning,
is already junk
or just left behind.

Enemy soldiers of Fapla,
Cuba and a few from Russia
lie shot to pieces,
some half burnt
and whole brigades are wiped out

and in the distance I hear jackals howling
and the air is full of vultures
turning in it

while the stench of death,
phosphorous and gunpowder almost suffocates me
and some more dust or maybe emotions
makes my eyes tear.

[References: Redneck=Englishman. “Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama” = Gaelic for: “For here starts war; carrion birds sing, and grey wolves howl.” From: “The Fight at Finnsburh.” Jackal = a African fox.]