A VILLAGE IN NORTH KOREA.
As reported by J P Pillow.
As a reporter I had been invited to see a strange desolate land.
The leader was a small, desperate little man.
Come see for yourself
"We have no such Contraband."
What much impressed me was what I didn't see,
No dog or cat or birds could I see.
But even so where would the birds go?
There was nowhere any tree.
No green bushes or landscaping could there be,
No green grass or roses or beauty for the eyes to see.
Hungry, lean people slowly walking, desperately.
Millions of poor, plodding souls steeped in their misery.
The small native driver of the faded Kimchi cab
Was saying things might not be so bad,
We will soon have a weapon so huge
Respect for our nation will come like a deluge.
We could make explosions and make a fire and clouds as big as the sky,
Where untold hundreds of thousands could die.
We will soon have missiles to reach those not so near,
We can make the nations of the world recoil in fear.
There had been a day when soldiers from afar
Had fought here in a bloody, often-forgotten war.
The ones who came were quite a mix of ethnicity,
Peoples came of every foreign nationality.
There were stories of truth never told
Of brave ones who died in the cold.
How could the writers of the pages of history have missed
The real story of the terrible agony?
Where thousands and thousands of the yellow race,
Poured through the passes at a suicidal and bloody pace.
On they came through smoke and fire and this manmade hell
Until the numbers of the dead was too large to tell.
Did the writers of history neglect or forget to say
That the numbers of dead on a particular day
Saw the battle come to a terrible and horrible end,
Then the piles of dead across the pass were impossible to transend.
That the charges of the red soldiers could across the entire pass only stop,
When the thousands still coming could not of the dead, climb over the top.
Maybe such a story is impossible to tell,
Perhaps history is so very sensitive, maybe it's just as well.
Perhaps another story as well left alone and maybe not said,
Is of soldiers who left their canteens unfilled, the rivers were too red.
Such a sight is hard for the mind to grasp and for the eyes,
Too hard for the imagination and numbed senses to realize.
But one story that should never have been untold
Is the one about soldiers who never died in the cold.
Thousands...Thousands...left without a home or country,
Deserted by the nation they fought for to keep its people free.
The driver had made a wrong turn and these eyes could see
In the village where we weren't supposed to be
A blonde-haired, blue-eyed man by the well was looking at me,
With tears in his eyes that spoke of hunger for liberty.
Before the guard could, with his drawn weapon come near,
He said there are many like me... many thousands here
Whomever in history could have told and held such a lie,
About where we went and how we had to die.
We will not and can never come home,
We've been deserted and left all alone.
We, too, had girlfriends and wives and loved babies,
We had dear ones that we will never be able to see.
We all know the happening years ago
Was the day that they stamped us missing, called us MIA.
And told our families the unforgivable and shameless lie,
That we did not come home, it was our turn to die.
This poem is here , without censorship, as it was written.
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