Boots

I heard the march of soldiers boots across      
The jungle floor and wondered should I flee;      
But once the fires were lit, I could not cross      
The river, while the flames meant I could see      
The deaths of neighbours: families, I knew,      
And children who had played close by the stream,      
Where soldiers now took aim and quickly slew      
The men and boys and girls; and every scream,      
I heard, was sickening; I pressed both hands      
To my mouth, lest my sobs attract the men,      
Who'd started raping mothers on the sands,      
And teenage girls as well, who'd now and then      
Sung songs and made their breads from all the shoots      
That now lie crushed beneath the soldiers' boots.    
   
I guess some feel the force and find the thought    
Of soldiers using rape may soon excite    
A breadth of mixed emotions; yet, you're caught    
Like rabbits in the highlights every night;    
It is hard to divorce the detritus    
That may be left behind by genocide;    
The damage is collateral (of course)    
But soldiers "follow orders" as the tide    
Of civilisation is pushed right back;    
And silence in the jungle echoes, while    
The media expose; but their attack    
Is slow and met with silence and denial,    
For nothing's really happened after all    
And soldiers will march on - hear their footfall.