The Siberian Ice March

Ice, like fire, scorches skin.
It stiffens men like ash.
We will die clumsily
With our sins unredeemed.

Spring will melt our graveyard.
We will sink like Russia.
There will be no summer.
These are lands of winter.

Did I do my duty?
Did I serve with honour?
Does it even matter
In the cold of failure?

Pity the poor sailor
On this ice-bound water
Where our frozen bodies
Are the rubbish of time.

About bsixsmith

I am a writer of stories and poems - published by Every Day Fiction, The London Journal of Fiction, 365 Tomorrows and Det Poetiske Bureau - and a columnist for Quillette, Areo and Bombs & Dollars.
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