Permit me to open by expressing joy and wonder

that we’re marching at the head of our companies

in different uniforms under a different command

but with a single aim—to survive

You say to me—look here we should probably let

these boys go home to their Margot to their Kasia

war is beautiful only in parades

but apart from that as we know—mud and blood and rats

As you speak comes an avalanche of artillery fire

it’s that bastard Parkinson who is taking so long

he caught up with us at last when we took a walk

on an irregular route our collars loose at the chin

our hands in our pockets we were on leave already

when Parkinson suddenly reminded us that it was

not the end yet that this blasted war isn’t over yet