The stain of death spreads below,
but from my cockpit I see none of it.
I only drop bombs as I have been trained
and then, far above the haze and blood,
I speed toward home.
I am deaf to the screams of pain.
Nor can I smell the stench of slaughter.
I try not to think of children shivering
with fear or of those blown to pieces.
They tell me I am brave, but
how brave can it be to drop bombs
on a crowded city? I am a cog,
only that, a cog in a fancy machine
of death.