1939.

Scortching grounds of clouds
Sepulchered trenches that bloat
I could hear the echoes of deeds
The magnitude that bled glee deep.

Ringing voices of screams and plea
I ran, I hid, I sang with grief
Thy shoulder was my peace
And what fell is that piece.

Grasping you tightly, as gravel spew
As I cradle ye, I flew
This conflict, such bittersweet blood
Only she could make it right tonight