Tarred and marred in glisten and gloom,
Snow footings but dusty, dreary loom.
Dusk tried a bloody disposition...
Bereft of planned rules, a lost situation.
The soldiers stood on, anchored to the spot,
Low on fuel and muscles and blood,
Etched resilience on the frozen mud;
Did they write parchments or simply rot?
Not a sliver or beam to uphold,
A beacon engulfed by treacherous cold.
Still they stood on bones and hope,
On spring keepsakes and summer glory they cope.
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