my home as the key turns the bolt, i smell the mossy scent of morning seep from under the designer purfume he left in his wake. [applause] >> this is, i have several poems in various solder's voices. some that i made up and some that exist this is for jessica lynch, war memories. i have forgotten myself. who i was, i cannot now know who i have become is a stranger i have forgotten myself there are other things to lose in battle eyes and guts, other sacrifices before life. vilost myself. i am not who i was before this war, i am not she who no longer dares to be my mother is so happy with this worn body returned home. we pretend that i am as whole as i look. but at night when i stair through the dark at the hidden image in the mirror i cannot lie to the stranger i see. i have forgotten everything. except my affection for children, my service to country and my insatiable fear. [applause] >> sizing up the cost of war. >> what is left but the shoes. shoes scuffed and torn, no longer having feet to carry them, shoes empty now. work boots bearing mud from the last field he had plowed with his fat

a purfume of smoke freshened my nostrils. pastures reached to the head of the bay.hick roads where locals greeted with slowly raised hands or a nod of a cap to my car the postcard my eye framed in it's longing. moony's pub where i stopped for a pint and slipped my quest. so, you are a to bein accomodating my english. they're all about here. she showed the photograph with dark hair and features unlike my own but a resemblance of an uncle. what was the ring happened on my chance or grace. why not trace through lost norman crests or track dna to tribes 6,000 years gone from the banks. or further back through each human cell to african eve her grunts are tuning savannahs. i felt the gift shared from the bones later that night in the crowded room when all the instruments had gone silent and a man rose up shyly alone and sang sean moss one of the singer's songs. beautiful country, i take you to by the black water screens of the beast the thrush and the black bird sings sweetly and the wild deer over the mountains branches with fruits and blossom the and hives with honey.