As you looked at the mountains so bare.
You could hear a small crowd.
Is sounded like combat it sounded like war.
Locals would wonder and walk over and see.
The Canadian soldiers were indeed in combat.
Fighting and leering.
Two languages were spoken and the combat looked fierce.
But as the dust settles the fight seemed odd.
No guns, no knives, just sticks an a ball.
A man stood in the back with Jerry cans taped to his legs with an odd smile on his face.
For it wasn't combat at all.
An old game that's usually played on some ice.
The tension of life so far from home seemed tapered by this silly old game.
The locals looked on in wonderment, who are these grown men with guns, and the wounds of proven killers?
They play like children and laugh so loud.
Canadians have arrived and wish to stay but there are time to move on and realize that we will always be friends.
We have died in the foothills of the Himalayas, we came as invaders but have left as friends, we have lost limbs and our minds in the dusty dry sand.
Our blood falls on land once occupied Greeks.
No soldier wants anything more than peace in 8 days but we know it wont happen so we play our silly old game.
|Santa is always around to protect us as we play|