In the end, we managed.
We gather together again,
kith and kin.
No family, no other friends,
no fawning dogs,
no kids.
It is just us,
under a white cross each.
Adventure seekers, proud and young,
left behind the comfort
of a once-called home.
With obdurate resistance
refused to stay,
ignored our beloved ones’ sorrows,
turned a blind heart,
looked away.
Mud, rain, silence.
In the trench, a whistle,
a flash, a fire.
A symbiosis between lethality and precision
put at the service of an army
under a zany‘s supervision.
In front of us, our fade.
In our skin, a cold sweat,
a frenzied pulse, a hysteric tick.
Our time is now eighty-sixed:
cannon fodder in a cavalcade.