A moment in the drift

My feet hurt, as if walking were a sin upon man.

I had to rest, my heavy breathing fogging in front me,
The ivory scene turning battle from red to dark frozen brown.

I was tired, and Bastogne was quiet and dead.

How I missed my mother, with her callused fingers from constant stitching
My Father, with his strong handshake, always seeming to challenge my own.
My Sister, her grave lonely and cold with flowers wilting by now.

My friends, my comrades...

My weapon of war, not my weapon of choice, not my voice of a swans cry,
But a lions roar vocalized by a vagabonds frostbitten trigger finger.

I'm cold, here in a moment in the drift.

I'll get to my feet in a moment...I'll be going home soon..

Mother
Father
Sister...
Brothers..