A Stuka Pilot

You get used to the screaming
As it pushes the night-
The whistle of snowstorms
And the hurt of the light
Or the hate of the future
As cliched as it is
And the sky--made of glass
The screaming--the wind

You fall in love with your Gunner
Men all now mean more
All the world may be dying
Here over The War
The night is the Only--
Hands gloved, eyes blue
Dream of the bombing
It is--that which you do

You do not see the cities
Blacked out for the night
You do not see the People
As they duck from Your height
All you hear is the screaming
And the glass and the snow
The firecracker pictures that
Rise up from below

You cannot be a part of
A certain school of though
Nor understand those
Who started this War being fought
They do not hear the screaming
As the sky splits in two
All they see are the numbers
Which cannot speak for truth

You become beautiful
As they pilots become-
Flying over a War
That will never be Won
O the screaming may
Determine what happens below
Shadow-casting the glass,
The silence of snow.