Six nylon strings, sending mellow tones
to those who would listen.
Simple chords, strummed, plucked,
with or without capo, no pick.
We would gather to forget the carnage of the day:
the dangling limbs held by tattered ligaments,
compressed by blood-soaked tourniquets;
the acrid smell of burning flesh from white phosphorous;
piercing screams from the afflicted.
Familiar strains to celebrate
the quiet of the night sky lit by flares
searching for the enemy, revealing so much more.
Songs of love and loss, of sweat-drenched nights
and blood-smeared days.
With others—singing, laughing, escaping—for there is comfort in community.
Monsoon-drenched days,
shared in the company of others, free the soul.
There is joy in voices raised in song,
fleeting relief in laughter
healing the soul and preserving our sanity.
Love of a different kind for those with uncertain futures.
All brought together by my war-scarred guitar.