Each bitter man shall meet his bitter 'morrow
He'll stand, cut lipped and whimpering,
Fingers touching palms and touching stone.
Waiting, with his back against the grave,
Eyes fading, rain pouring, bleeding,
Unseen wounds pouring colourless blood.
His hope, like his body, beginning to die.
Festering, un-nurtured in the cold
But clinging on, hiding in broken crevasses
Pretending to win the war.