Beneath Berlin, April 1945

Perhaps there's a measurement of our defeat,
Calipers of some sort. I don't know; maybe
Square feet. Our world is steadily shrinking.
Remember the vastness, the spectacles of those
Now long-over hours when everything in sight
Seemed ours for the taking? It wasn't, apparently.
All ebbed away. Now we huddle in here without
Anything, not even windows, not even unfiltered
Air, and the world's new owners have come pressing
In. Let them come. We're no longer so young as we
Were, and what we once had desperately wanted
We've had to surrender. At this point, we don't
Even fight; we endure. The pistol I'm loading
Won't measure what's happened, but it will
Conclude our defeat.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-11-08 at 15:28

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