The softness of his words arrived <br />as if their eagerness could ever matter, <br />upon repatriation they would die, of course <br />give way to fresher blood and the banality <br />of things like honour and the Fatherland. <br /> <br />There would be, as a matter of consideration, <br />the French who never had attracted glory <br />their word for dusk was what they'd need to hear <br />it is the time between the wolf and then, the dog. <br /> <br />It was the pleasure of the company of self <br />that made their final minutes what they were to be. <br />It was a teamwork of eight Walthers, one command, <br />their war was over then, his words did matter not.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/von-heidecker/
