In the killing fields, it’s kill or be killed, in the killing fields.
It’s my way or your way, the bitter, cursing, sound
of foreign washing on the line
blown by a wind we tortured to possess
In the killing fields.
In the killing fields, the children cry,
aged faces torn by a protective edge,
voices contorted to a digital monotone
of national glory and covert enterprise
In the killing fields, it’s me or them.
In the killing fields, blood soaks the sand
for a moment, and she’s gone, a sacrifice
less adhesive than oil,
but a stain stays in the heart,
from generation to cursed generation.
In the killing fields, it’s me or you.
My enemy will you hold me now?
Crushing this dearth pit of shame?
Won’t you slay me here,
and lay me in a bed of tears,
Being
beyond the bereaved poppy fields
that wilt the sun of summer wars?
Enclosed in this surrender, you would whisper
with a tender kiss, all human,
that it was never us or them.
It was all ways us, all one, forever.
