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Ivan had outnumbered them,
a quarter million sent to blow away
a worn and tired handful of
young boys who long had run
out of excuses and, good ammunition.
Blood painted a new canvas on
the spiteful ruins embalmed in smoke,
where women now were herded out,
half falling up the stony steps,
their fate hung heavy, like a dress of snow.
A group of heavy breathing SS officers,
had laid to rest a dozen soldier boys.
Inside of craters, shallow under guard
with shouts of 'byistro' and 'dowaii'.
One grave had just been finished smooth,
but there was something, noticed by them all
a lock of light blond hair, reflecting in the sun
whose rays had stolen now a fleeting glimpse,
the hair stood up, a golden tuft of grass
calling the one who wore a Matron's uniform.
A burst of bullets could not stop the Frau,
she knelt there at the makeshift grave,
and gently buried the essential heart and soul
while hesitatingly, two rivers of her precious tears
rolled down into the ashes of the village soil.
Oh, you, why did you have to die, my soldier boy,
when far away from here, a mother will be told,
there will not be a happy end to tragedy,
and she will weep until the very day she dies.
It was the war, the Kaiser said, would sure be over,
before the coloured leaves came tumbling from the trees.
Herbert Nehrlich
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, November 21, 2006 |
| Submitted Date |
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Wednesday, November 24, 2010 |
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Poets
