When I got the call of duty,

to join the forces, second spell.

I just rode into the sunset

though I feared and took farewell.

On my way I met a pilot,

"call me Birdman" soft he smiled.

When I looked into his dark eyes,

saw an old man and a child.

"Oh my God, what I've been waiting

to cross the sea and enter space",

Birdman laughed and yelled "no bunker,

from the air we'll take the race".

Just arrived I glanced at mirror,

tried one simple air of steel.

"Go for poker" grinned the bull face:

"Only God knows what you feel".

But what most I fear deep under,

is the death of soul and all,

and I hope I still can reach you,

when there's time to give a call.

Calm two weeks and then the whisper,

of the eagle flying soon.

Thousand souls awaiting order,

all together, yet alone.

Though the thunder, by the border,

is too far to make me pray,

still it's there as to remind me,

that I might not get away.

No more dreaming; code for ready,

got us out of comfort pose.

Twelve degrees, southeast of blue point,

lock the target, cook the goose.

Blue and dark and star bright lightning,

as we see from platform B.

Just a screen of hidden error,

to provide the desert fee.

Saw the rockets trail of fire,

and I pushed for all I could,

but it's more than Bloody Maries;

deadly more than what it should.

But there is no time for anger,

there is no time for relief.

It is just the night of wonder

and the dark side of the speech.

Six oh five, returning aircraft,

leaving hot wells coughing smoke.

Safety calls for cooling powder,

while the men fight for a coke.

Then I saw the smiling Birdman,

staring blind in chopper glass.

Rescued by his crew of bodies,

when his mind ran out of gas.

When the chopper swept close tower,

saw the Birdman clearing up.

And he mimed loud; "Won't give in man,

gonna win the armed soul cup".

Though you feel the breeze of fire,

but your heart is deadly cold,

you must not look for a wire;

just stay put for morning gold.

When the morning comes and silence,

heat will soften frozen face.

I'll be home on Sunday Sweetheart,

if alive I'll leave the base.

2013 © Torbjörn Gideskog


Hermine Jung



2018 Torbjorn Gideskog © Copyright. All Rights Reserved.