Morning mist hung over the front line like a dirge,
as far as one could see the landscape was gray as
a German infanterist´s uniform and the few trees
left standing had been hit by shrapnel a thousand
times. Lead heavy stillness no bird flew across this
corner of carnage, but the soldiers had gone and
the dead had been carried away. Farmers moved in-
sons of the land- ploughed fields of sudden death,
and planted seeds. And the soil, rich by the blood
of unknown soldiers, exploded in many hues of green.
Few traces of war left, except for trenches crossing
here and there, but they were a good place for rain
run off when earth got soaked and a place for hares
to hid from the farmer´s shotgun.
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Comments about this poem (Passchendale by oskar hansen )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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