Youth.

Youth.
Lee.

Once, we were young men, far away from home; far, far away, dreaming of girls and glory.
Smoking 20-a-day;
Coughing-up lungs, sand, doubt and fear,
Without an answer to the recurring thought in my mind, "what am I doing here?"
I still feel the sun, I hid from it; the cruel, Afghan sun which shined too brightly for some;
bleaching their youth, making them old, aging them a hundred years a
day,
Yet their tomorrow never came.
"They'll be forever young," is callously said.
Instead of finding old age, these men cast long shadows;
finding rocks, dust, and gaping holes in the hearts of those back home:
To be mourned in private,
Alive in memories and memories alone.