Wandervogel . . . Nicht Mehr
We are going to die here. Not soldiers but
Prisoners of war now, held where snow turned sleet
Hits down to our bones. The cold makes us shut
Our eyes against losing too much body heat.
We are the animals? We who live like
This: so frozen, so hungry every day
That some openly wish for death to strike
And free them from this Hell of freezing grey?
Our families cannot find us, we become
Less hopeful, less caring, more lost, more cold…
And more vulnerable. We don’t hear from
Anyone what they’ll do with us. We’re told
That we are lucky — out of mind, out of sight.
Sure, lucky men die, frozen, overnight.
The Great Forest
Here trees hold sway with thick set branches that
Cross and recross like runes protecting what
Should never be known by ordinary
Souls. The forest prefers humanity
To keep its distance. Lord Frey, Vanir God
Of the wild and green, is anything but
Welcoming to those not of this wood, not
Of the Great Forest, or it’s folk. Only
Here trees hold sway,
Everywhere else they were owned, sold, clear cut . . .
Gone. And with them went the forest folk, shut
Out and away from places they surely
Should never have had to leave, should always
Have been in forever. So, here, you see,
Here trees hold sway.