Every morning after the reveille
we hold a bicycle race
from the camp to the Meuse

At full speed I take
the last turn, right into
brand new barbed wire

invisible in the light of the sun
As proficient torturers two others
are colliding with me immediately

Flat tire, torn clothes
In a comic strip, I would now
be hanging horizontally

But I fall, rips in my flesh
gaping and bleeding
Bandages at breakfast

and then I lead my patrol again, what else
after the mysterious providence
of a farmer who's going to pasture on the river?