Che

the sun shines over the tree tops,

his heart, for the first time, slows to stop.

the wooden stock and full metal jackets rattle in his hands,

he's gone now off where all revolutionaries go in time.

the hammer back,

he fires one last shot.

the bullet flies,

leaving behind the world below,

it hits an eagle in the sky,

the bird has not even a second to die.

the shell casing leaves the action,

the bolt returns to its position so mechanically.

the eyes wander and see the dark black above the left hip,

soaking the drab cloth.

the bird begins to fall,

it's wings thrust upward to the sky.

he stretches up his arms,

reaching for the clouds.

the revolutionary hits the ground,

pulled down by forces he does not fear.

wings of feathers and forest green,

claws of bone and steel.

dead for his purity,

reaching out for victory.

is it nobility?

or life's crude trickery?