blurry black and white dreams
of a long-gone time
when the trenches swallowed entire towns
who had no idea why
they held the line

but they held that fucking line

there simply is not a substitute
for the steel
in British spines
in the eyes of every haunted husk
in the French and German lines
in the hearts of Serbians
in constant flight
and the Austrians they fled

and on and on the shelling went
well into the night

and when the butchers signed their treaty
it didn’t stop the fight

It’s been 100 years since then, so I wrote a poem about the Great War


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