.
He and I, we struggled
Till I put the blade in his chest.
One.. two... three.... four... fi..\'
The sounds of his ribs piercing,
Still echoes.
His grunts with every hit,
Clear as a summer sky, free from clouds.
His hands holding me back,
begging for his life.
Not him, only his hands and his limbs and his body.
I too, was only begging to live.
I stabbed him again, and again and again
till I was tired and scared and afraid and afraid.
His blood and coughs, together as one
Still alive, but barely.
Shivering like a wet dog,
in a cold, rainy day
The blood stains on my hand,
The breaths, and the monotone.
I realized now what I had done.
As I see him lie down still struggling to breathe
Sinned, and sinned. And sinned.
I went up to him once again,
With the blades in my hand
The poor man, his eyes gleaming
with death and pain
He only wanted to live.
He had a wife and a daughter,
Oh my remorse, what had I done?
He was only a family man,
Not a fighter;
and he\'s now gone
He\'s dead.
Broken to no end like the glass;
He and I, the Frenchman and the German
we both played our parts
in a race to the knife
With no winners.
(Inspired from all quiet on the western front)