for Peter Scher <br /> <br />Before dying I am making my poem. <br />Quiet, comrades, don't disturb me. <br />We are going off to war. Death is our cement. <br />If only my beloved did not shed these tears for me. <br />What am I doing. I go gladly. <br />Mother is crying. One must be made of iron. <br />The sun sinks to the horizon. <br />Soon I shall be tossed into a gentle mass grave. <br />In the sky the fine red of evening is burning. <br />Perhaps in thrirteen days I'll be dead.<br /><br />Alfred Lichtenstein<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/farewell-shortly-before-departing-for-the-theater-of-war/
