He Was Lucky Poem by Gert Strydom
He Was Lucky
The BTR-152 lowers its heavy machinegun
and starts firing,
before the 90mm shell
knocks the hell out of it.
The BTR stand motionless
and white smoke rises
from it like steam
and there’s an acrid smell
in the air.
I jump down from Ratel’s dome
and through the smoke
a Cuban appears,
with hands above his head
and there’s a man unscarred
that should have been dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 10:56:38 PM # 1.0.0.1119
