Dreams From the Field
Humidity hangs in the air. Sweat soaks our bodies. A machine gun chatters And a distant field gun thumps. We tramp through the desert, While death hides in the gloom. Perspiration drips and stings our eyes. Swearing, cursing, staccato radio, The desert steams in the sun. ‘INCOMING!’ And we all drop... Sign in to see full entry.