The Black Angel [Observatory]

A silent spirit falls upon the air. Our movements, executed with short thought, Exist to fool ourselves that They aren't there. Bombardment rains around us, each shell wrought By hands of foreign death. Through Luck or Chance This haven somehow our front men have bought The fire draws close with sudden immanence. We leap as one from beds of straw and fear And rush the field, our violence our defence. The fighting is ignoble; grenadiers Eliminate the honour from the charge. We sense it in the actions of our peers. Against the blackened earth, our camouflage Is mud and blood and our Creator's dust – Our eyes are shaded with a dark mirage. The sound that drowns us out could soon combust; It mixes with the smell of sulphur fumes, Dull pains, cold steel, the taste of death like rust. And suddenly, it dies – as we assume. If only this whole conflict followed suit, Perhaps we'd soon forget this rotting tomb. But shining hope like this was rendered moot Since yesterday. Five hundred more are dead And still we fast remain, an Iron Youth. We eat like hounds, retreating to our beds, And as the spirit falls, the sky glows red.