How dull for you to live your life
without a hill to die on.
You on your vast sunken plains
—the lowlands south of Saigon.
With foresight fallen underfoot
the enemy surrounds them,
And holds aloft the sunken man
or breaks his back with thralldom.
For in every labored breath and whispered sigh
there is a will,
Bringing brigadiers to battlecries
and hardened helots to the hill.
And every drop of monsoon rain
pummelling mercilessly the sea,
Is beleaguered by insipid cries
wrapping fingers ‘round the sheath