Sweating It Out

Caught in the crossfire, cowered in fear,
the teenaged, wounded volunteer
crawls to the cover a wall might provide,
while bullets fly past him from either side.

The shirt on his back is tattered and wet,
soaked with a mixture of blood and sweat,
he shakes in the dust at every blast,
fearing each second might be his last.

A thousand miles from the lad's despair,
emerging to face the media's glare,
the president speaks to the press there waiting,
during a break from negotiating.

Outside of the air-conditioned hall,
what with the heat of the lights and all,
he suddenly feels uncomfortably warm
and beads of sweat are starting to form.

Not wanting to give a flustered impression,
his aides at once conclude the session,
leading him back to the hotel's splendour
and efforts to reach an agreed agenda.

The posturing president pores over maps,
straining the talks to the point of collapse,
while back on the ground, a frightened young man,
is sweating it out for as long as he can.