Scribe Under Fire
Scribe Under Fire
The wall had been there for an eternity
closing gaps of time and sacred places
field stones memories and gentle caress
Hans could not write any longer any
shorter it was too loud and far too quiet
the truth did not escape the lonely
fortress of sheltered dreams’ betrayal
He had lost a touch of his mind and a hand
already in previous senseless exchanges
luckily he was born tough and left handed
before right became wrong and left was a crime
When the trenches had become thicker
with blood bodies sticky bayonets guts
gore debatable glory and forlorn medals
Hans wrote from the depth of soul and despair
Hell bombs grenades shrapnel and agony
enacted a torrid cacophony of fire and noise
his nostrils became scorched while his ears
refused to hear and to listen any much longer
Scribbling poetry on the back of cigarette packets
his molten fountain pen fused with his mind
and he fought for his life his sanity and one
terminal act of kindness morale and advice
Hans could not release even one more shot from the
gun dangling from overburdened shoulders but
the sergeant shouted ‘attack you wretched coward
for King and for country for honour and sweet victory’
It had been a modern war and someone must have
known about shell shock or post traumatic disorder
but when they executed him with clean merciless shots
from a nameless firing squad because it was not for refusal
But for spreading fake news about the beauty of war for
sabotaging innocent minds of future generations for
soldiering with a mighty pen and not with a glittering
sword so he was shot at the wall for writing and not fighting
September 2018
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