Winter Retreat (Stalingrad 42/43)

Snow fell upon the marble eyes of the dead, And the magpies pecked the buttons on the coats, Drawn by the gleam of dulling brass attract, As the ravens sought the softness of the throats. Trees in naked staggers scratched the skies, And the guns in the distance snapped like cracking ice, In the pools of oil, flames guttered slowly out, On the scalps of corpses froze the cooling lice. In the minds of the generals thoughts akin to grief Wept not for the loss of life but loss of war, And men growing hypothermic in retreat, Felt the stilling of their blood forever more. How to withstand the burning reap of cold When it bites with frost the toes ‘till black and gone, How to withstand the march of retreat in winter When winter marches on and on and on.