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Tags: Ww1


Bucephalus was the legendary horse ridden by Alexander the Great. This poem is about WW1 and takes a German point of view. bucephalus blood represents the 3 million horses killed in this conflict.


Submitted:Jul 26, 2012    Reads: 9    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Here lies the gallon of horse's blood

fallen soldier lies beneath this hope now dead,

trapped within mans sin

waiting for bayonets kiss.

In this moment of war, these seconds of time

The shadow of foe merges into one

and fate is held in mind.

The trigger or the knife?

To feel a man as blade enters his heart

can only come from hate.

The trigger is easier the civilised way

This conscience that looks on helpless foe

expected to kill, just one bloody more,

feels the cross of servants war

that Kaiser bids by heaven and crown

to give reapers charge his due.

For crown has right to heaven's door

and empire would deny me this.

Yet my hand it does tremble

to see the eyes of England.

This soul of man with broken colours

for he is the wretch of me,

and though we speak in mother's words,

I hear only the voice of common man.

For language can merge this pain

and our blood will always pour both ways.

And in this moment, these seconds of war,

my German heart strokes sorrow on comrade beast,

a reminder of edelweiss days

of mountain silence and the purity of home,

and a tear unites, what has been lost.

Hate and foe are gone this day,

replaced by Bucephalus blood.

For here lies a noble beast.

Bucephalus blood has touched the hearts of men

this moment of war is betrayed.

The soul of a soldier can walk away

and dignity is mine this day.

And as I return to comrades trench

this moment of life is all I have.

The clock of war demands the kill,

and this reservoir of blood runs deep

for men are but sheep

bleating before the gun,

this last supper is man's Judas in life

and death will cry a Ludendorff speech.

But not before I make my oath.

Bitter is the taste of Bucephalus blood

I will not shoot at you?

To waste this nature, this flower of time

taken from the valley of life

to be spilled by blind invention.

My grave will carry not your cross.

For man is not worthy of gallant charge,

his mind is drowned in tomorrow's corpse

and killing is all that is planned.

For Peace lies hidden in common man,

banished to a mountain of hope

which war refuses to climb?

And the rope has taken the drop

For the voices who have cried.

This war will ride on Bucephalus back,

his spirit will die alone

and Alexander will weep among the gods

As brothers fall in Flanders field,

killed by widows rant,

and a righteous cross will remember them

anointed with the deeds of Bucephalus blood.





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