He held it like a precious gift, <br />this cup of crude gray tin. <br />Black toes regard him earnestly <br />from well torn army boots, <br />long past their sordid history. <br /> <br />Something inside his head, <br />as dusk fell into trenches of <br />malodorous despair, <br />a little switch had snapped at last, <br />turned off all hearing, sight and, <br />shockingly, all traces of a fear <br />that had immobilised his devilled soul. <br /> <br />There was, amidst the whistle <br />and the thumping of grenades, <br />a primal scream of sheer necessity, <br />of need sprung from the loins of desperation. <br />And, like a prize, a trinquet of pure gold <br />he soldiered on, with silly laughter as his guide. <br /> <br />The bucket had been tied by fraying hemp, <br />the last remaining shreds of calloused skin <br />rubbed off and fell, like ugly flakes of snow <br />without an echo to the water far below. <br /> <br />He cried then, at the sound of empty tin, <br />it was as if the gods were mocking one, <br />the man who had not seen a dropp of anything <br />but human blood, spilled by his trembling hands <br />and those of comrades with grim jaws <br />and stubbles of sharp hairs and tired eyes. <br /> <br />It could not be, he shouted to the smoke-filled sky, <br />but in the bucket there was life, he now could see. <br />A happy looking frog, dressed all in green <br />had hitched this ride, in hopes of water and he sat, <br />a handsome fellow and clearly without fear. <br /> <br />They made a pact there at the well, a silent pledge <br />as only strays were buzzing by the fallen men. <br />And when the sun rose in the morn, a crimson ball <br />they reached the shores of mighty Balaton near Vlee.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thirst-of-a-soldier/
