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Another poem written about the Mogadishu Firefight in Somalia, Africa.

These Old Memories And Me

There was a soldier I knew In Somalia, he
was such a good friend to me.
We were there for Adid the warlord, the
year was nineteen hundred and ninety-
three.

My friend would tell me tall tales of Texas
the state he was from.
Together we'd laugh out loud at anything,
anything to keep us from turning so numb.

At night we'd stare out across that vast
African sky, seeing things that only the
two of us could see.
Thinking of home and our families, those
with whom we so longed to be.

There was a soldier I knew in Somalia, we
were there on the third of October, nineteen
and ninety-three.
He didn't survive that day there, but he was a
good friend to me.

He died in an alley of Mogadishu, I stayed with
him as his young life slipped swiftly away.
His last words were for his parents, and to
them only I will say.

Now from Somalia the Marines have all gone,
the 10th Mountain has left, the Rangers have gone.
And I feel so alone.

I stare off into the distance at my Mississippi sky,
seeing things that only I can see.
All that's left now are my memories, just these
old memories and me.

J. Lewis Dean