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Hand-to-hand
In the shell-hole up to his neck in mud
An intruder falls and stumbles down in
Now on his hand and dagger there is blood
Regrets in his head continue to spin
The soldier’s gurgling make him crazy
Different uniforms, the same young men
Days have gone, the gurgling now hazy
With three stabs; he will stop living when?
An unbearable silence fills his head
Talking to him helps his state of regret
“Comrade, today you, tomorrow me,” he said
Out of the hole it’s the man he forgets
In the safety of his trench and his friends
That hand-to-hand stab needs no time to mend
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