Across meads of thick brown tussocks
field-gray-clothed soldiers march
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescents do.
Ahead distant smoke curl in wisps away from
homes dug deep into warm hillsides.
Soon, they followed paths
that tread through snow and pass by half frozen ponds.
And as rough hewn glass before it cracks,
the still ice reflected the fading light of
the soon shattered day.
But from my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk-death,
no one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long:
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits lands on my groin
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...
And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats,
garments too soft for this day of cold steel hands.
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantic whispers, some will surrender,
some will become martyrs,
some elders wise but wait panic in their chests shallow breath,
rugs made sure or closets or chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
cast into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in as the door collapses,
dust scatters, and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.