I grew up hunting with my father
In a little mountain town not far from here
When I turned six he gave me my first rifle
I was eight years old when I killed my first deer
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger
We needed meat and I had steady aim
But if I could not kill an animal cleanly
I'd give it up and never hunt again
Somehow I barely made it through high school
I dreamed about escaping every day
I couldn't see me working at the prison
I joined the Army just to get away
The mountains of Iraq felt like my hometown
The valleys and the ridges looked the same
I knew that I was born to be a soldier
I figured it was just like hunting game
I saw him in my scope across the valley
I squeezed the trigger slowly and he fell
But in that moment I felt something breaking
And my immortal soul went straight to hell
The Bible says it is a sin to murder
I figured that in war it was all right
But always in my dreams I see him falling
His blood soaks my pillow every night
The doctors say that I'm just post-traumatic
They tell me that with time the mist will clear
But they don't understand the things that happen
When you can't tell a person from a deer
Some nights I dream I'm hunting with my father
Some nights I dream they've sent me back to war
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger
So I cut it off and I will hunt no more
In a little mountain town not far from here
When I turned six he gave me my first rifle
I was eight years old when I killed my first deer
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger
We needed meat and I had steady aim
But if I could not kill an animal cleanly
I'd give it up and never hunt again
Somehow I barely made it through high school
I dreamed about escaping every day
I couldn't see me working at the prison
I joined the Army just to get away
The mountains of Iraq felt like my hometown
The valleys and the ridges looked the same
I knew that I was born to be a soldier
I figured it was just like hunting game
I saw him in my scope across the valley
I squeezed the trigger slowly and he fell
But in that moment I felt something breaking
And my immortal soul went straight to hell
The Bible says it is a sin to murder
I figured that in war it was all right
But always in my dreams I see him falling
His blood soaks my pillow every night
The doctors say that I'm just post-traumatic
They tell me that with time the mist will clear
But they don't understand the things that happen
When you can't tell a person from a deer
Some nights I dream I'm hunting with my father
Some nights I dream they've sent me back to war
Dad said I had an itchy trigger finger
So I cut it off and I will hunt no more
inviata da Dead End - 14/9/2012 - 13:25
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Album “Courage”
Un ragazzo di montagna, che ha ricevuto in regalo il suo primo fucile prima ancora di andare a scuola… Suo padre gli insegna non solo a sparare ma le regole della caccia tra le quali quella d’oro: l’animale non deve soffrire, “un colpo, un cervo”.
Passano gli anni, il ragazzo è ormai adulto e la sua unica prospettiva in quel posto è di finire secondino nel carcere locale. Così preferisce arruolarsi e finisce tiratore scelto su altre montagne, quelle dell’Iraq. Qui però nel mirino del fucile non c’è più un cervo ma un altro essere umano.
Il ragazzo non regge, qualcosa gli si rompe dentro…
Stress post-traumatico, dicono i dottori dell’esercito…
Lui, il cacciatore dalla mira infallibile, sceglie di amputarsi l’indice della mano destra.