The Coldness Of It.

by Samuel De Lemos

The white of snow
conjures up so many
images:

It’s bleak and beautiful,
pristine yet cold.

It covers up
the surrounding
mountain peaks like a
rabbit’s furry coat.

I imagine
how
saber wielding
Poles mounted on
their trusted steeds,
boldly crossed
a snow covered
meadow

to attack a
German mechanized
Wehrmacht panzer
division.
Camouflaged,
against the white and
green trees.

They
opened fire–
astonished, mouth agape,
Twentieth Century Teutons
meeting animal and human flesh
with hot punishing steel—

stained
the white heavenly powder
red.

I imagine the absurdity
of it
played out like a
Shakespearean drama,

The backdrop—

a lonely
snow covered field, as
peaceful as the one
I see today.

Suddenly filled with
terror
as the contrast of
mechanized infantry
charged by an archaic mounted cavalry,
met each other
on that distant
Pastureland.

Laughable,
by today’s military standards,
tragic, in the sense that
an end of an era occurred.

Nothing about it
makes sense,
only the winter
backdrop and the
mythical coldness
of it in my head.

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