|Elizabeth Bishop 1911-1979|
No solace for the enemy,
We sleep in unbearable trenches,
Desperately try to forget the scars,
Numb to the pounding artillery.
The rubber now frail in my boots,
First sign of the amber sun, March! March!
Infinite desolate earth parts as we march,
steeped in animosity manifested for our enemy,
Forgetting the inadequacies of boots,
we pass the familiar trenches.
The monotonous rumble of artillery
blurs the remnants of our war, the scars.
A world of scars.
Scars that define us men who march,
cold to the menace of artillery,
a constant, callous longing to meet enemy.
Our only allies, the trenches,
are dirty, black like the soles of boots.
Swollen, brave feet in boots.
The pain masks burdens, scars,
scars born in the trenches.
No talk among grown men we march
in broken lines, vigilant as the enemy
promises much with an echo of artillery.
I could be free of my boots,
embrace the cold welcome of the enemy,
Forgetting all of the scars.
Men are told to run now not march
as beautiful fire hounds from trenches.
Hit the trenches!
Awoken by the now vicious artillery,
Instructions to fight not march
Reach my ear as the boots
of me who lie still, create scars.
Scars forced on us by the enemy.
The cycle of war, the march, solace in trenches.
Tainted by anger for an enemy, whos artillery
proves mortal the men in boots, leaving scars.