e.

enemy lines

the bullets ricochet like birdsong,
men dance in jolted movements as their bodies fall,
crimson coats the battlefield like a regal robe,
all in pursuit of unattainable gains.

the commanders watch on with burnt out cigars,
their men half-dead, staggering blindly with ringing ears,
only a few return hours later,
their eyes widened and scarred from what they witnessed.

the rubble around them smoulders,
beneath it lays a graveyard,
civilians' and soldiers' entangled limbs, their faces distorted from their final moments,
they were practically skeletons before they met their end anyway.

morale drops like the enemy planes,
the men march on as their comrades fall beside them like dominos,
their bodies riddled with wounds and disease,
their names buried with their charred bodies.

the wounded are left like beached whales on the river banks,
not even children avoid the brutal bullets,
the men chant halfhearted declarations of love for their leaders,
while planning the ways they can end this sorry life.

this is not a battle of military formations or artillery,
it is a battle of the human spirit.

***

This poem is about the battle at Stalingrad in WW2. I've been reading a book about it and it's been really harrowing to read about the reality for the soldiers and civilians involved in it, and I felt compelled to write this.

e.