A dead man in my hands

Blood on my shirt, and fear in the air. I saw a boy yesterday under a tree, still alive, but had been there for days. He must have been shot 3 or four times. His eyes were swollen, and when someone opened them, he seemed to have only pupils, and no eye white.

He died as he was carried away to be treated. Or maybe not to be treated, maybe to be buried. Or to be shot. He was not a human being anyways, he was just a rebel. A rebel is evil.

Veejays face is pasty white, like dead bread. Unbaked dough, with small black spots on it. Maybe it is not the malaria that is eating and enjoying his heart, maybe it is another evil that sings to us from this horrible forest we sit in. Maybe is it ghost? The men ran from the river, because a worm stuck himself in somebodys fist. His battle fist, the fist he want to save the world with. And the worm consume the fist, and now it is swollen, and his finger cannot enter the trigger hole any longer.

Maybe he will die, but we do not care.

There are too many trees here. they are not green and happy tree, they are not tree that we pay money to save, this are brown and dirty tree. The body of the tree is covered in small parasite plant with dirty brown leaves, the tree is sick and dying because of too many parasite.

We are parasite in this country, and we will suck all the life, put it in our bullet chamber and carry it out with us. The soul of this country will be changed for the soul of the bullet.

The people are weak, and we are weak, but we are a little stronger than them. So we shall beat them till they call us 'uncle'.