The war

The horses are pulling a wagon behind the front line. They carry a food supply, or maybe, a machine gun. They left millions of dead behind them, thousands and thousands burned down villages, blown up bridges, murdered families. The horses keep steady pace. They have long way in front of them, and much longer way back... Better do not think about it now. The soldiers are discovering Europe and on the evenings they share the bread. How Europe will accept us? Vlasov's army is marching to the death. How the World will accept us? Father, I didn't have a chance to know you. Copyright (c) 12/1/08 Pottsville Marie Neumann