Soft cotton shoes offered only the slightest protection from the pace of a refugee. Out before the fires and well before the haunt of occupation, gone so long before that not even a smell of burning generations would reach her. Night was unplanned and unprepared for. It was nestled on moss and warm stones, shivering.
Catastrophe leaves a flavor in the mouth of the moment, but behold there are no terrified mobs - no executions. No fools gallows or lead ridden brick. Why has thine enemy become so generous? What are soldiers without an intent to punish, a mind might ask itself in the heat of this dreadful anticipation. That voice of the mind would have seen the treachery in Dresden, the lonesomeness in the outcome of WYrzburg, and though of what hearts must be forged in to claim today as its own.
Defeated, this town and I, each burning out as the sun set and the embers roared and lapped. I held a camera, but the burning screamed back to life in my spine, my guts. Breseler sat again by my side tonight, what courage. A young man and his fallen hero drifting through miles of war, in a race to bottle these pornographic monstrosities of battle into labeled jars to sit forever on a shelf labeled 'past'. I am in honor of your courage, young Europe and young Breseler, may I have the sanctity to die only after your wedding.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment