1914 A foot kicks a ball out of a mortal trench. It hangs like a mud-coated bomb in the air and lands before the approaching enemy. After the silence, men of both hues rally and embrace and rush to No Man’s Land for an overdue chitchat and kickabout. Wishes traded and gay carols hummed, they soon let loose, following the leathery sphere as it glides over the frozen mud. And if a player fires it into the forlorn barbed wire, they go to bring it back together. Caked in wet clay, they cover, tackle, attack—all in fair play. And when the goalies fly like horizontal rockets to deny deadly shots, the crowd goes wild. During the little break, merry jokes on meeting under the mistletoe are cracked. The game is done when the moon spills the holy clouds to have a peek. Everyone forgets the score. Under the chilly stars further down the line, wine and sausages are swapped for chocolate and cigarettes. Christmas trees are lit, looking like fat rondel daggers full of bliss, of peace. But the talkative tongues of War soon fan the fiery ears of the superiors with news of this rash, monstrous fraternity; orders are given to forget (Instantly!) this lull and gun the old foes down at the crack of dawn. Extra time: Heinrich, Herbert, Harald, Helmutt versus Oliver, Oscar, Ollie, Owen...
Amit Parmessur is from Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. He spent his adolescence hating poetry before falling in love with its beauty. His poems have appeared in several online magazines, namely The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal.
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