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.