Arjuna 2000

A smooth motion on the slippery palm
and a run through the pillows where calm
soldiers focus on their inner center
and rise like leafs in the brown of winter.

The calm soldiers flash their eyes swift
glint to the falling snow, falling gift,
through the runners sliced soft bread,
their calm, swift prayer to the dead.

Can they be these inner warriors when
their tools are just machines, not men
but operators, no blood on hands but
scattered by metal to metal hand gut?

By the streams of Babylon can they weep?
They are exiles and in a sort of sleep
hang their battle terminals on the trees,
let their calm breathing rise and release.