A winter field
the fog, lurking
not a budge,
not a single movement
not even a breath
makes a dent, such
places; lots of death
in times long past.
Torch flickers, snuffs out
a silence of sound
the stark noise of absence around
enveloping, sealing, like cold wax
just as these soldiers’ fates; buried in stacks
their lives – a lost whisper
heard in the still breeze.
Would they have been better off
was it a good idea, dear Christophe?
Regrets, maybe a few;
not like you can say anything new
‘tis a century we’ve been blue.
This is not because of you.
The men in suits—curse them!
Wretched pigs, can they not
put aside feelings from their cot
must others, innocent ones, answer
questions that they themselves cannot?
Ah, dear Krzysztof,
all your names
succumbing to the same flames.
Wherefore do you lie here
so far yet so near.
Into the dark, we can only peer
long time ago, dear,
now a shadow in our minds
staying put as long as history binds.