Wounded Comrade

A cycle of poems «Anamnesis morbi»

In the trenches deep, where shadows creep,
Lies a comrade, wounded, his spirit weak.
Amidst the chaos, his cries are unheard,
As the battle rages, his fate left to the wind.

Wounded comrade, broken and alone,
Your pain echoes through the battlefield's groan.
We'll rally to your side, through fire and strife,
And carry you from the horrors of this life.

Your blood stains the earth, a crimson stain,
A testament to the anguish and pain.
Your limbs are twisted, your flesh torn,
Yet your eyes still plead for some kind of dawn.

We hear your whispers, faint and low,
A plea for succor, a desperate plea to know.
We reach out our hands, with hearts filled with dread,
And lift you gently from your bloody bed.

Wounded comrade, broken and alone,
Your pain echoes through the battlefield's groan.
We'll rally to your side, through fire and strife,
And carry you from the horrors of this life.

Through shattered bones and broken dreams,
We carry you upon our aching teams.
Your wounds may heal, but scars will remain,
A reminder of the battle's brutal stain.

But amidst the darkness, hope still flickers,
A flicker of life in these dimming embers.
We'll tend to your needs, with care and might,
And guide you through the tunnel of the night.

Wounded comrade, broken and alone,
Your pain echoes through the battlefield's groan.
We'll rally to your side, through fire and strife,
And carry you from the horrors of this life.

In the annals of time, your name shall be etched,
A symbol of valor, forever etched.
For you are a warrior, wounded but not bowed,
A testament to the strength that in us resides.