Charles Bukowski (16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

This one is not complete. Here is the full version:

the retreat


this time has finished me.

I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots.

my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so.

victory was so close.
victory was there.

as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her.

and when she came to bed
she was beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good.

eleven months.

now she's gone
gone as they go.


this time has finished me.

it's a long road back.

and back to where?

the guy ahead of me
falls.

I step over him.

did she get him too?