The omen

I saw men thrusting a bayonet and knife
through the enemy
as though life was meaningless
and killing with a rifle,
an armoured car’s gun
and war devoured
the enemy and the innocent
local population
and the madness and mystery
of having blood
on your hands
was like a omen
and a token
of more killing to come.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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