The Man I Killed
When I close my eyes, I still see him
in the misty light of not quite day—
blue flowers by the side of the road where he fell
a star-shaped wound where his eye once was.
I see the butterfly lit upon the wreckage of his face
and to this day I cannot explain
those golden wings that touched something deep inside of me,
something that I know that I can never name.
The Man I Killed was more than a story
or some offering of imaginary pain.
It’s not some lie about destiny or glory
found within the Southeast Asia rain.
The Man I killed is something I have carried
from that dawning day and through every day that came
to tell me that I must tell the story,
that I must live,
that I must feel this pain.
He was a small—still young —almost beautiful man,
small wrists—small waist—smooth skin.
He carried his weopan with the muzzle towards the ground,
a school boy with a belt of ammunition.
I know he saw my handgrenade land at his feet,
but he did not cry out—or even make a sound.
He took one step, then up into the air,
then he landed broken on the ground.
The Man I Killed was more than a story
or an offering of imaginary pain.
It’s not some lie about destiny or glory
found within the Southeast Asia rain.
The Man I killed is something I have carried
from that dawning day and through every day that came
to tell me that I must tell the story,
that I must live,
that I must feel this pain.
In my dreams sometime I let him pass me by
and he passes as if there isn’t any war.
I see his eyes in a way I never really saw them
and his life, like mine, continues down the road,
down the road, down the years, down the hours to this day
to where his children ask for stories of the war.
When I close my eyes, I still see him
in the misty light of not quite day—
blue flowers by the side of the road where he fell
a star-shaped wound where his eye once was.
this song is published in
available at cafepress.com
listen to the song at myspace.com/tomdriscollsongs
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