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The Mantra Of A Hit Man
Breathe……….Breathe………Breathe
The slow mantra of the hit-man
Runs through my mind like a cold stream
Washing away the cramp of ten hours spent waiting
And the building adrenaline of the coming hit
Breathe………Breathe………Breathe
Beneath me the cold ground
Above me the tangle of thorns
Before me the ground falls away steeply to the Marshes
That line the small stream, Hosbach
Breathe………Breathe……….Br…
Movement stills my breath
False alarm, not my mark, too young, unfinished.
On the hillside across the stream, I relax.
I move my fingers slowly to let the blood flow
And…….Breathe……..Breathe……
He should be here anytime now
Creature of habit, betrayed by his habits
And the watchfull eyes of a neighbour
The daylight fades softly
And I ……Breathe……Breathe…….
There he is, nervous, as if he knows his fate.
He joins his family in the arena
Of the sodden field of Barley.
My mantra moves on
Breathe…….Breathe…….Breathe
The position and hold shall be firm enough to support the rifle
Breathe…….Breathe…….Breathe
Take aim, then relax, take aim again
Breathe…….Breathe…….Breathe
The rifle should fall naturally onto the target
Breathe…….Breathe…….Breathe
Adjust your position if necessary, test and readjust.
Breathe…….Breathe…….Breathe
The training once kicked into me in Aldershot,
Kicks in!
Seven millimeters of genius, the genius, Brenneke
I continue the mantra of precision
Breathe……..Breathe…….safety off
Breathe……..Breathe…….310 meters…..25 centimeters high
Windage……Breathe…….the width of my hand….Breathe
I observe the effects of my breathing on my point of aim
Breathe……Breathe……..I set the trigger…….Breathe……...safety off…..
Breathe in……….a ball of white light, seen through the glass,
Buds at the muzzle of the rifle.
Bright in the dusk it quickly growns into a blue and orange daisy of fire
Six petals, one for each groove in the barrel.
Dimly, behind the daisy, I see my mark crumple in the dusk.
The hollow point bullet tears through the tiny chest cavity, expanding.
Smashing the vena cava, the aorta and both lungs
Of the three year old.
Throwing him into the void,
Where we will all, one day, follow.
He dies alone, deserted by his family, his heart pumping a few more beats.
But he is not alone in my mind, the ghosts are always there,
I see other innocents fall,
Other shots fired, in other lands,
Without pride, always with regret.
My mantra continues, reload confirm the kill…..Breathe
Safety on. I climb out of the hide.
My work has just started.
Later I stand over the young Roe Buck
His once strong body emaciated.
The strong future buck ignored by the hunters for three years.
Too good to kill, he should have made seven.
Fathering many kids, before worn teeth and parasites took their toll,
Has been chosen for death, by fate and an untidy farmer.
The tangle of wire about his head.
An obscenity.
I move on carrying the dead buck.
And another ghost.
