Never Hear the Bullet


The guns, the racket, the mortars, they scream all around
We lay in the mud, the sweat, the blood, in the ringing silence.
We make no noise, no whisper, no sound.
I pray to God to end this war, so costly, so violent,
And ask that I never hear the bullet.
War is not glory,
No tale of sure victory.
No.
War is terror.
War is an unending nightmare, hoping to never hear the bullet-
The bullet, the bullet, the pass to death,
The last sound to hear before the unknown.
You run and dive and look from right to left,
Hoping to see the enemy before you are exposed to him,
Praying that you never hear the bullet.
The chinks of the bullets leaving my gun,
They leave a haunting sound with me, thinking
Whom did I hurt? Did they have a daughter or a son?
Did they have a wife, a life, a job? Was he praying?
I hope I never hear the bullet.
God seems far off and no help to me now.
As twilight fades, I beg for a longer night to stave off the day,
A day with more terror and a day with more pain.
Another day to pray
That I never hear the bullet.

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