Above the trenches

Playing cards scatter the surface.

An upturned crate becomes a table.

The dirt becomes a latrine.

Meagre rations become a full meal.

A single lantern in the world’s darkest place—

more than enough to see everything they require.

Cards float to the ground,

a swipe from a losing player.

The lantern tumbles too,

stopped by a lucky catch.

—

The ground above the trenches—

lay those who lost more than cards.

Moonlight floats to the ground;

there is nothing more they will require.

No amount of light will ever help this place.

Their meagre rations can go to another.

They need no more latrine.

An upturned life cut too short.

Young men scatter the surface.