Your Poem Called to me.
I was not alone that night. Nearby were comrades at rest in the tunnels. My leader knew my dislike for the tunnels and sometimes sent me out to check for movements of the enemy. Rarely did you venture nearby at night.
Below ground, I felt confined like a worm crawling about, breathing heavy earth-air, stench of unwashed men, and suppressing a growing fear: only the dead are meant to be buried alive, like this.
In some narrower branches I porpoised-forward or scooted like an earthworm. It was necessary, so that you could not follow.
You would not have wanted to catch me there.
I had left the stagnant dampness below, inhaled the night air and found the scent of ocean bay fresh and uplifting. A short walk brought me to my favorite place where I could forget the oppressive tunnels. From a palm laden vista, the valley was like the cupped hands of a giant, and I watched as moonlight spilled into the ocean. I could see the distant Air Base we sometimes attacked, and of comrades who did not return.
I could watch as stars fell from the night, like the firebirds they were, landing gracefully as others silently lifted on roman-candles for fun -- stars reborn anew.
Flashes of a distant storm tap randomly, like my leader’s typewriter, and silhouetted mountains. Clouds snug against lower hills glowed as if heat-lightning flashed within. I knew my comrades below could feel the earth tremor, and some could even guess the direction and distance of the bombs.
I pushed those thoughts away. Why did I think of the war while up here, and the hidden valley while down there?
If the night was clear;
if the moon was full and glowed the earth in silver;
if the clouds were like drifting balls of cotton;
then I could imagine the cloud-shadows' game of chase as they slid down hillsides into the valley, skipping through an abandoned village and waft off to wherever cloud-shadows played.
I admit that my thoughts were of home more so than the enemy: my quiet village and cooking fires; grandfather; mother and my younger brothers and sisters at play. And yes … I had fallen asleep for a while and dreamt of Dao, and our last moments together.
It was time to return to the tunnels and report what I had observed of the enemy to the leader, who would nod wisely and know that I would be a good earthworm for another day.
I inhaled deeply, savoring life above, and felt melancholy walking back.
Within a few yards of the entrance I sensed a presence and suddenly we were before each other like eclipsing clouds. I squinted trying to identify friend or foe and felt a stabbing flash of light flick the trail green... and cast a pale moonlight-shadow as I fell to earth.
Unable to move, I wondered: Why Me... Why Not You? and indifferently watched a growing-glistening black pool of life beneath me fade to nothing.
My spirit was drawn to voices in the abandoned village.
Elders, like mist, tended fires and listened to the needs of the living.
I have not revisited the tunnels... but often see the silver tinted valley at night. Stars do not rise and fall now, nor does the earth quake from distant thunder.
No, I do not wonder about what happened that night.
I accept what happened. Can you?
Let go for this one night, and I will show you my valley and a new way to dream.
If the moon is full and paints the valley silver;
If clouds are sliding down hillsides like children playing;
Then we may yet hear their gleeful laughter drifting in the night.
Our paths will have eclipsed once more through our dream
-- no one will die --
and with the dawn,
we will feel at peace.
