The soldier crosses gaps
Of bleeding wounds.
Are numbered to the extremities
From where crimson flows.
Upon the yellow horizon,
The warm descension
Of a flame that is different
Than from those who aim for death,
By that of the torch.
Still, no brighter warmth
Than the heart
Of one soldier without the disguise,
When he can mourn for the safety of his wife.
A coldness compels him
To step onward
Past the memories,
Past the footsteps, behind.
Lakes form as red, greater than from his tears.
Like burning branches,
Exhausted from the heaviness
Of one after another
A great compilation
Of things to lift that do not matter,
Other than his heart that weighs him
In different waters.
He uses his eyes to see the sun,
His ears to listen for commands,
His mouth to drink the taste of sweat,
To taste his tears,
To comprehend his own fears.