In the dim light, the old gray notebook opens,
I write from the trenches, as I did in wars past.
The land, scarred and weary under a smoke-gray sky,
Speaks of valor and loss in equal measure.
"Will you fight on?" they ask.
"Are your spirits strong, your resolve firm?"
I feel overwhelmed by life's relentless siege,
The same grim, yet fluctuating frontlines.
Even as the flares light the night sky,
Their brilliance seems fleeting, senseless.
I withdraw early, my mind racing with thoughts of peace,
"Tiring, isn't it?" the young soldier remarks.
"Yes, it's draining", I admit.
"If you think it's grim out here", he says, "you should see the plans we lay".
So here I am, back against my pack,
Just an old soldier, just an old scribe,
With a worn notebook,
Something stirs in the dark,
Approaching me across the mud...
Ah, it’s just a stray dog, this time.
Trench notes
© Copyright: Александр Шалыменов, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126021208021
Свидетельство о публикации №126021208021
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