The battle against enemy tanks,
in armoured cars that continually roll in
does require nerves of steel
to time upon time drive in at speed,
to stop to risk your own life,
to get in a shot
and then to drive away quickly
and to stay alive
remains an immense thing
or maybe it becomes mechanical,
as if the events are already programmed in
along with teamwork
and keeping your mind
and all that I do remember
is the hollow feeling,
enemy projectiles flying past,
enemy armour burning
and the dismal smell of death
that remains on the wind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
dismal smell of death, good write, thanks.