Gallipoli Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Gallipoli
From the treeless mountains he flew
to the world known as bald majesty
when an eagle comes looking for you
you remember Gallipoli.
You will dream of hot metal in flight
and of blood as it flows to the ground
when your ghosts come to visit at night
you will die with a whimsical sound.
Will the pilgrimage make up for breath
all the comrades who hid in the trench
it was you who invited your death
and you added yourself to the stench.
The voice of the devil? Well, Lucifer, its war itself I condemn, not soldiers. Caustic work, Herbs. Love, Gina.
Over forty years ago I worked with a man who was a little older than I am now. He was short, slight and balding. He had been in the Royal Marines at Gallipoli in 1915 and he told me how they made improvised grenades out of jam tins. He was such an ordinary man and he told such extraordinary stories. What a blessing that I and my generation have not had to endure that.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 4:29:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Impossible to comprehend it all, Gallipoli, other horrors of war... This drips with regret as well. 'you will die with a whimsical sound'... makes me shake.