NSmen

They have let their hair grow out
But their eyes, some glinting behind spectacle lenses
Still burn with fire.
On them the jungly perfume of leaf and soil lingers.
Long given the freedom to wear what they please
They choose to confine themselves to neat
Combinations of polo-jeans-shoes, all the better
To spring into camouflage in an instant.

Tekong dirt coats every word they spit.
They talk about the good old days
Four years back, where, in a haze of grimy agony
They performed minor miracles of
Bravery – marching the paths of oblivion,
Swallowing the dog cruelties of their trainers,
Leaping from planes a thousand feet in the air.

Coiled muscles tense, then jerk in laughter.
Trigger-finger twitches recall stuttered sleep-talk.
This slave brand of dust and mud has become their
Bloody badge of courage.
Warpaint smiles hide the solemn, sacred faces
Lying beneath their pride.
They sling their satchels as if for war.

See the traces of bootprints they leave behind
Standing up.
Turning, their heads happen to
Catch the sunlight.
For a secret instant
They wear crowns of dusky maroon.

They walk past, unnoticed by the formation clerks
In loose boots and puffy berets,
Akimbo, smoking, scheming for sick leave.
In plainclothes they are more than these uniforms
Will ever be, these NSmen
Who try so hard to be soldier.