The Forest of Stalingrad
Look at the trees!
Oh how they march on
With duty and hope ahead
Such strong broad backs,
Embellished with green and white thread
They bend and stretch short branches,
To adorn their bark with stars.
How such young saplings chased the purpose,
Of legends whose carcass merely stained petty verses.
Onwards to trudge on summers spent
Onwards to gasp the stench of death…
Thy distorted belief of glory and honor,
From roots rotten of greed and horror.
Tenacity has not a place here!
For no one was reared to overrun Hermes.
The soil of tragedy as one’s souvenir
For fate cannot be bested at the frontier
The bellow of the heart deafens the clang of the anvil
Melancholy litters the ground like leaves during fall
Passion easily doused as though the fire of a candle
Crushed dreams, as the iron fist falls
From columns, they scatter
Piling up on man-made riverbeds
Their caterwaul shatter the land—
Foreign land—where foreign blood stains the sand red
So come hear the sound of the trees!
Making a symphony with the boom of the wind
Such music that enslaves your ears
Of the most dreadful wailing noises
Now watch, as these trees lay still…
Covered, once again, in white and green
The only difference, however,
Is the carving on its surface:
“Thank you for your service.”
- Hannah Leanda