Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Please, would you proofread my poem.
THE TOOTBRUSH
They arrived in the buses smelling sweat, alcohol and grease.
A tank was roaring in the nearby street.
I heard the soldiers laughing, their flag fluttering in the wind.
I wanted to run, but my neighbour's wife said,
"Don't do that, boy! They are going to kill your father!"
I saw them arrest my neighbour, they all cried.
Last week they worked together, today they were enemies.
Than they knocked at our door - teenagers with black headbands,
AK-47s, handgranades and bowie knives.
"We want your son," they said to my father.
My legs became wobbly, I had a premonition of a prison camp.
They drove us through the destroyed villages, burnt out homes,
cattle roaming without a goal.
A bloodied body of an old man was lying on the road,
panic-stricken horses galloping past him.
Our lumpish guard shouted hoarsely.
He demanded Seiko watches and cash.
He raised his rifle above my head to beat me because I did not have either.
What bad luck, I thought. I'm going to die virgin like a monk.
They stopped at the former factory and ordered us to line up.
With our hands on the wall, our legs outstretched, they bodysearched us.
I was feeling the guard's chubby fingers all over my clothes,
and then he picked up a toothbrush from my pocket.
We both stared at the strange thing, and then he threw it over the wall
saying, "You'll not need it in this place."
THE TOOTBRUSH
They arrived in the buses smelling sweat, alcohol and grease.
A tank was roaring in the nearby street.
I heard the soldiers laughing, their flag fluttering in the wind.
I wanted to run, but my neighbour's wife said,
"Don't do that, boy! They are going to kill your father!"
I saw them arrest my neighbour, they all cried.
Last week they worked together, today they were enemies.
Than they knocked at our door - teenagers with black headbands,
AK-47s, handgranades and bowie knives.
"We want your son," they said to my father.
My legs became wobbly, I had a premonition of a prison camp.
They drove us through the destroyed villages, burnt out homes,
cattle roaming without a goal.
A bloodied body of an old man was lying on the road,
panic-stricken horses galloping past him.
Our lumpish guard shouted hoarsely.
He demanded Seiko watches and cash.
He raised his rifle above my head to beat me because I did not have either.
What bad luck, I thought. I'm going to die virgin like a monk.
They stopped at the former factory and ordered us to line up.
With our hands on the wall, our legs outstretched, they bodysearched us.
I was feeling the guard's chubby fingers all over my clothes,
and then he picked up a toothbrush from my pocket.
We both stared at the strange thing, and then he threw it over the wall
saying, "You'll not need it in this place."
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