The million dollar war, and a penniless soul Become entrapped in an ephemeral state. Reality is not his father’s cold brewery, Reality is the burning, fermented sweat Which singes his eyes. “Salute” rang The officer, as the crowd looked on. Georg fell in line to salute his soul away To a reality of misconstrued differences. A moment of bombastic glory rang out in his ears, As he began to carry what his father had bestowed on him. He didn’t realize, or did not conceive, The sound of the months following. The bombs of the months following did not ring. The bombs were quiet— A silent brigade of destruction.