Trench Crosses

War is no glory. No adventure. No heroism.
War is steel, blood, and madness. It is the rasping breath of lungs rotting from gas and frost. The trembling hands gripping bayonets because there is nothing else to hold onto. The roar of artillery that turns cities into ash. The silence after an explosion, where a person stood just moments before, now nothing but scattered remains.

It is hunger and disease. The endless march through the mud, feet sinking with every step. The stench of death that clings to uniforms, skin, and bone. The sound of a comrade whispering for his mother with his last breath. There is no honor in war—only suffering, only loss.

And when the killing finally stops, all that remains are the crosses. Simple wooden markers, half-buried in the earth, surrounded by broken stone and shattered dreams. They are not symbols of triumph, but of tragedy. They do not stand for victory, but for the unbearable price paid in blood for the madness of those in power.

And it is always