Passchendale
Cold mud as suckling death beneath my boots,
Between feigned sleep and sips of this, Our muddled tin brigade, I rest And do not walk the earth above That's shared by only living and the dead. For I am nothing but the fleshy dirt Beneath my nails, that wait to crawl again; To drag this body from one hell, toward the Acrid plumes of smoke and lead. So now I kiss the cusps of sanity goodbye And plunge myself into the deep Foreboding calls of nightingales and larks; That pierce the dusk, and morn, And never miss my heart. Sorin Popa
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