Two Men In A Field, November 1917

I felt something foreign
Dart under my skin
I fell 20 yards from
The spot where we’d dug in
And I tried not to think
«How will I make it back?»
And I won the war
Between the wind and my final match
Well, I didn’t want to
Finish off the body on my right
I felt no fear smoking
There in his wounded sights
We’re happy just to kill ourselves slowly
He looked at where my
Cigarette had been lit
Pulled one from his pack
And placed it between his lips
And he muttered something
In an alien tongue
Struck his index finger
Twice gently with his thumb
And with no matches or anything
That could provide a light
I leaned my face in, shielded the wind,
Lit his smoke with mine
We are not soldiers, traitors, or enemies
We are two men in a field, November 1917
Mud in our boots, smoke in our lungs
To our cigarettes we clung
Happy just to kill ourselves slowly
And our peace was won without our guns
Smiled at each other in spite of the blood
Smoking famously in a field, November 1917