just the other day

I sauntered, null of hope,
on a weeping plain of an African land, 
eclipsed with the fog of despair
and the elegies of the decaying victims
of a fiesta of bullets and swords.

Inhaling the thick smokes of a burning hut,
counting the corpses of once beautiful people,
I swallowed the bitter pill of guilt,
and realised, there will be no forgiveness
for the atrocities of the bullets from my rifle
and of my once stolid mind
as cries of sorrow tormented my conscience.

I sauntered on, via hills and valleys of blood
Happy, the war is over
Sad, mine have just begun.
The judgement of my actions