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Wounded (poem)

By Paul Hellweg

I lost much blood,
but I had enough left
to be afraid of death.
After all,
I was only 23-years-old
and a virgin
in both
love and life,
and I really wasn't
all that experienced
in killing
and dying,
so when the medic
slipped a morphine syrette
into my thigh,
I was naive enough
to think
all was well, and
would be forever.

—Paul Hellweg