Between Trenches #NDC_Bingo [B3]

[Intro — whispered, panned left and right] 1918. The sky coughed first. Then the men. Then the mothers. No anthem for this kind of silence. No parade for the breathless. [Verse 1 — slow and deliberate, like a dirge with pulse] They lined up for bullets — but the air slipped through first. An enemy with no boots, just breath. Just time. Just touch. Resistance? We were busy resisting death from the outside in — not knowing it would come from the kiss of a brother or the cough of a child. No gas mask for fever. No trench deep enough for lungs. [Verse 2 — building, adding guitar drone underneath] They sent boys to the front and death took a shortcut. Snuck in through hospitals, through hymnals and morphine. Snuck in dressed as nurses, as lovers, as hope. You think war is loud. This one was quiet. A silence that multiplied. They called it “the Spanish flu,” but it spoke every tongue, danced in every ballroom, and slept in every nursery. Resistance? It wasn’t about standing strong. It was about not falling alone. [Verse 3 — distortion kicks in, more abstract, voice lifts] Imagine coughing in the rain and no one stepping back. Imagine the priest with a mask over his collar, last rites written in steam on a windowpane. The body resists until it forgets how. And history forgets who didn’t have a sword but still lost the war. No medal for phlegm. No statue for the breathless. [Bridge — surreal, melodic whisper under delay fx] We carved our grief into telegraph wires. Strung obituaries between the trenches. The wind knew their names better than we ever could. [Final Verse — haunting, mantra-like repetition] Resistance isn't always rage. Sometimes it's blinking when the world begs you to sleep. Sometimes it’s soup staying warm for a man who won’t come back. Sometimes it’s the nurse, sixteen hours deep, still singing lullabies to lungs full of water. [Outro — fading like a reel-to-reel tape] Not every war is fought with fire. Some are lost just breathing.