Literature
Fifty-Three Days
I remember the day we dug our graves,
In which, we'd spend those fifty-three days
Surrounded by those who wished us harm
High up on that barren hill lacking in charm
We dug them two feet deep,
Six feet wide,
In which we could safely sleep,
And from bullets hide
During the day temperatures soared
Our skin would blister when bare skin touched rock
At night it drastically dropped
And we returned to our shallow graves
All except one, who wearily gazes
Down on the green valley below
Where we sometimes tread, but fear to go
Monotony ate at us day after day
A lull had come, our cares went away
And then with a patience, that I've