Is it awful?
Is it dreadful?
Or...
Is it pleasant?
Is it splendid?
No words can explain the sentiments of a soldier.
For it hurts more than a thousand raindrops of bullets,
A mountain of horrifying grenades,
A roaring line of cannons—
Bombing through the air.
And down below,
Bits of debris.
Scattered.
Covering the ground.
And she said:
“Take shelter my warrior.
But should you not forget.
For things will go smoothly.
Go now...
And never come back.
For the wind will take its place.
Strong and abrupt.
And then.
The dark.”