Heilige Nacht
A broken tank stands sentinel before
the salient where Rundstedt’s soldiers tried
to force a passage as their army died
that bitter Christmas, 1944.
By then they knew they couldn’t win the war
but fought to thrust their enemy aside—
for comrades, or obedience, or pride—
and, failing, knew they could have done no more.
Did the Child, who all those years ago
was born in hope, now look on in despair?
Perhaps, though I believe it was not so.
My thoughts return to lonely valleys where
the human spirit suffered in the snow
but still endured. It stood unbroken there.
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