Truck in Grozny

Truck
Three young men in the back of a truck
Each decades apart in animus
But still so young to the eyes
Of the starving girl on the roadside

They are tired and cold
Barely more than wire hangers
For their dusty canvas coats
Awake and alert only by rote

The youngest holds his head high
For he is proud of what he does
His every error is honorable and just
But his saber is without a fleck of rust

The man in the middle holds his head
Screams resound in his frostbitten ears
Never will they leave
And never will there be a moment to grieve

The oldest rests his head on the truck
Those wails are like the crickets
His hands will tremble forevermore
But he'll never again cry or mourn

Snow begins to fall
Its whiteness consuming
The sanguine crosses on their sleeves
The cold and the time are virulent thieves

They reach forth
Taking all they can from these men
Heart, soul, and mind
Nothing remains but the canvas rind.