The Fallen Cuban Soldier Poem by Gert Strydom

Your hand lies stretched out
and still holds on to your Ak
where you lie in Angola,
in the African bush in the last sleep
and in Luanda
and later in Havana
they know that you are missing
and are probably dead.

Nobody of your unit
will ever again,
drive tanks and armoured cars
and their general
does not wait on their return.

Somewhere in Cuba a woman mourns
and waits in vain,
to ever again
hear something from you.

You lifted your weapon
against boys from South Africa
and the bullets of an Afrikaner boy
pierced you.

Your camouflage uniform
is stained with blood
and you are placed in a hole
in the red-brown sand
and white powder,
is dropped on top of you
before you become a part
of the cold earth.

Later a Ovambo’s farm goats
will graze above you and eat
from the thorn bushes,
that grows over you
and you will be forgotten by everyone.

[Ak=Ak47 submachine gun.]