The ghosts of American soldiers
wander the streets of Balad by night,
unsure of their way home, exhausted,
the desert wind blowing trash
down the narrow alleys as a voice
sounds from the minaret,
a soulfull call
reminding them how alone they are,
how lost. And the Iraqi dead,
they watch in silence from rooftopsas date palms line the shore
in silhouette,
leaning toward Mecca when the dawn wind blows.
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