Trenches Poem by Nastasimir Franovic

The sun sets and divides.
It leads to death or to eternity.
Ghosts call to the trenches.
With a trace, each step muddies us.

The mechanical eye looks at the world through the cross.
Spooky mushrooms sprout after the rain.
Bloody horizons subconsciously shout.
Ghosts, ghosts!

Yesterday the children played war.
The flower fields are bleeding.
Golden wheat fields are trampled at dawn.
Ghosts are calling to the trenches!