Leaving for the Front

 

Before I die I must find this rhyme.

Be quiet, my friends, and do not waste my time.

 

We’re marching off in company with death.

I only wish my girl would hold her breath.

 

There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m glad to leave.

Now mother’s crying too. There’s no reprieve.

 

And now look how the sun’s begun to set.

A nice mass-grave is all that I shall get.

 

Once more the good old sunset’s glowing red.

In thirteen day’s I’ll probably be dead.

August 17, 1914

(Alfred Lichtenstein was killed seven weeks later)

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