The rebel is all shield and sword,

you are all flesh and feet.

Already dead in this old Europe.

A road of neon dirt grows

towards a checkpoint.

An Acholi soldier laughs

in hyena soliloquy.

Blood and wine from hills

are filled with dying. Nixon

knew about Africa’s problem. 
Acacia trees whisper and disappear.

A moonless night hides its face.

The line of you does not move.

Cautious of how time and light

can be a revelation, you move

towards a twilight away from the city

that is no longer home or hiding place.

The blood of one man against a soldier,

against a clan, against the caravan of men,

against the flash of fire, against teeth and tongue.