1968 BY BAO DUONG

1968 BY BAO DUONG

Both hands strapped to the rifle, index finger caressed the trigger muddy boots stuck to the pavement green helmet held on for dear life.

Around the disturbed street corner, bullets like knives sliced the air hitting the exposed brick walls of a cozy modest Saigon house. Over the shouting of scared men played a sweet, melancholy song from the radio of a Pho vendor, who left the delicious scent wandering.

Gunshots rung persistent in his ears Popping erratically like fireworks Like when he celebrated Tet a week prior praying it wouldn’t be his last. He thought of his humble home A simpler place, peaceful, serene. Where the crickets chirp in the night where rice paddies had waved goodbye where mountains stood triumphant nearby where lush jungles teemed with life.

Far from the blazing infernos from napalm and agent orange. Far from the dirtied streets of Saigon, from a city painted with dried blood from the sleeping carcass of men that lay under the apricot trees blooming golden flowers of hope.

PAINTING BY JAMES SHELTON Hot Air Balloon Collage