The Hero

I was left standing,
a monument to myself,
unshaken, proud to have
survived the trenches,
the bullets that whistled
around me like warm wind,
the hot-blooded former
friends pooling in my boots,
the gripping drama of
weapons and white knuckles.

This is the me that was,
I explain to lookers-on,
the horrified ex-soldiers
huddled in groups,
in church basements,
in bunkers, in bars,
vainly trying to forget
themselves.

This is the is that was me,
they shout into my wake,
where here lies the hero,
the one who said war
workes in mysterious ways,
who came back covered
in medals and pine slats,
who never woke screaming
from his unshakable sleep.

I was left standing,
a monster, the pride
of lions, of eagles, of iron crosses.
They wouldn’t look me in the eye,
instead inspecting my feet
for the conventional clay.
I regret nothing, I whispered
as they wept. I regret
nothing.