German troops crossing the Soviet border during Operation Barbarossa, as they pass among a boundary marker, 22/06/1941. As I let you know in earlier posts, in some occasions I will be mixing poetry with colourisation. Here it goes, my very own poem:

He opens his eyes, and hardly palates, the angry bitter taste, the mud in his face. The feldwebel shouts as the smoke flows, standing in his lungs, with a hundred moans. “Get on, men, get on”, says at the border’s wall, “set this land our own, this grass, make it scorch.” “I’m scared”, he shouts, “I don’t want to go to war”. The feldwebel pulls the trigger and sings a new-brand song. “I’m telling you to cross it, son, cross the border of this road, and make these people’s glory handle the coldest floor”. “But, sir”, the soldier calls, “I’ve got a brother, a sister, a hundred and twenty doves and waiting there for me, a home.” The feldwebel pulls the trigger and sings a new-brand song, as the eyes of the soldier seem to carry a bloody raw. “I told you to cross it, son, you’ll be missed by a brother, a sister, a hundred and twenty doves, and there waiting for you, a home.”