Because of the catastrophic effects
generals were forced to dig in
at the start of the war, knowing
trenches were a temporary measure.
But soon they became absolute,
provided crucial protection against
shell fragments and shock waves,
a necessity from which there
was no wriggling free, no possibility
of abandoning the embrace of earth,
the dark, necessary wisdom of
a hollowed world, where fallen
leaves and broken twigs whispered
lessons of staying close, becoming
one with mud\'s cold innards, treating
each granule like a prayer against calamity.
And so the landscape morphed into
a network of furrows and sunken
pathways, where soldiers became
part burrower and part sentinel,
their heads ducking instinctively
with each rumble above, each warning
sign that the sky had grown angry,
and somehow needing to burrow deeper
into the underworld, into the choreographed
waltz of survival, sustained by
the paradox of light up there
and safety found down here. For when
the artillery paused, a brief reprieve,
they could peek over the edge, see
the mangled, open field, recalling
the argument of the trenches.