War Poem by Stan Petrovich
War
Everything is silence
Over the battlefield
Except for a few measly human groans
And the dying snorts of horses
Smoke trails slowly
Here and there
Near where the punctured bodies lie
One brave wounded soldier stands
Then topples into a snowbank
Quite dead
Long spears grow from carcasses
Like some grotesque reeds
And there is no winner here
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 5:11:55 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
