This great evil. Where does it come from? How'd it steal into the world? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doin' this? Who's killin' us? Robbing us of life and light. Mockin' us with the sight of what we might've known. Does our ruin benefit the earth? Does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine?
The Thin Red Line, James Jones
Born of an army issue pup tent circa 1969. Seen the cruelty of war. Vietnam. The war nobody won. The war only wanted by the generals, the cruel.
This tent survives. Only the inanimate survives war. Emotionless to death, to its surroundings, to injustice, to horror.
Blood rinsed from it's fiber, undisturbed it waited. The infantryman stored it well- he knew how.
Moved along, it traveled to me. What tribute can I bestow upon this cloth? What can I preserve and give new meaning to? I handle it like a shroud. Maybe it was at one time? Time and tide has weathered my friend, this cloth.
I liberate this sacred piece; give it new life and meaning. This protector continues on. Re-birthed, unlike so many souls from this war.
Wars to end all wars? Wars on terror? These words are hollow. They mean nothing to the dead.
(Reclaimed army issue Rayon tent from 1969 ex-Vietnam converted to coat with built in lined hood, patch pockets, knife pocket, inner pocket and detachable pouch. Zero waste construction)