I came to Paris to flee the war gods,
and their cynical words and cruelty,
each day viewing a decade of destruction
in the news from distant rice fields.
Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai,
napalm and carpet bombing,
a naked child’s run down a road,
there were no good reasons for their lies.
As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds
and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange,
some ask why so many have to die
while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.
Today began cold, wet, and gloomy
as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic
encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags
and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.
First Madame Binh approaches
dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai,
then comes South Vietnam’s Lam
followed closely by the North’s Trinh.
Last in the solemn procession
is Secretary of State Rogers
hissed and jeered at by protestors
as his car warily nears.
There comes the signal of completion
followed by a rousing round of cheers
signaling that the fighting is over,
a futile conflict with nothing but loss.
But observing such a ruckus,
I feel alone at the curbside
only now fully realizing
the extent of my country’s defeat.
© 1973, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
