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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392389" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Smorgan at the Don</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without a note of music<br>Or ancient ballad to recite<br>All throats too dry to sing<br>Dried of sound and spit by fear<br>Of lice, disease, the ring of weaponry</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without the prospect of discharge<br>From terror of unspeakable dark nights<br>Or a moment of release<br>From service to the deathly iron head<br>The logic of extinction, sacrifice</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without a golden finger for my hair<br>Ears shattered by tin hymns of motherhood<br>The comfort homilies of rabid men<br>Who die upon the front lines up ahead<br>Or cut down the deserters from behind</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In every hour that passed for sleep<br>I saw the Volga burn, the city turned<br>To barren stars. His men descend<br>To caves, armed with what's left<br>Of teeth and fingers, gouging holes<br>Crouched inside protective smoke.<br>Then suddenly the earth awoke and shook.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thought of my young distant cousin G., <br>Whose fathers paid to sail the ship<br>Resting in his island air force base<br>On sheets, plied with one egg a week<br>The comfort of his crew, only<br>A one-in-three death rate</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And of our enemy, Nazi in times of war<br>Christian between, like us, before we came<br>New men of sense, of international clay<br>Boyish at heart, whose heart itself is led<br>To place its thin white body on the fence</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At night between the volleys, mortar rounds<br>Horizon flares, we write on scraps and bark<br>To those whose home devotions<br>We cannot quite embrace<br>Nor yet withstand, tracing despair<br>With what remains of one good hand</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without a book of poems, however slim<br>Approved or banned, the dawn approaches<br>With no sign or prayer<br>I write as if this action were the last<br>To be survived, clearly aware<br>An unsound verse could silence me<br>Or keep my voice alive.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Frank+Bana">Frank Bana</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392389" data-title="Smorgan at the Don de Frank Bana" data-description="Without a note of music
Or ancient ballad to recite
All throats too dry to sing
Dried of sound and spit by fear
Of lice, disease, the ring of weaponry

Without the prospect of discharge
From terror of unspeakable dark nights
Or a moment of release..."></div>
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