Mud in our lungs, iron in our boots, whistles cut the sky like rusted blades. We are the boots that move the lines on maps, while someone in the rear just shifts brigade names. Helmets full of sleepless hours, eyes like bunkers blown wide open. They redraw borders with a fountain pen, we redraw them bleeding in the open. They raise their glasses over candlelight, far beyond the gunline’s reach. Every toast in those protected rooms is a bullet with a speech. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You raise your glass, we raise our dead. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You sleep in silk, we sleep in lead. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You take the glory, we take the blame. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You write the story, we burn for your name. We march through hell in numbered columns, chewed to gristle by the day. We storm through steel and choking smoke, so someone else can sign their name. Different flags above the trenches, different logos on the gates. Same old orders barked through radios, same old silence when we break. They say “we” from guarded balconies, they say “together” from the rear. We hear the word and taste the shrapnel, they hear reports and call it “clear”. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You raise your glass, we raise our dead. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You sleep in silk, we sleep in lead. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You take the glory, we take the blame. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You write the story, we burn for your name. Call it war or call it business, call it holy, call it sane. Every title hides a staircase built on backs that get no name. If we must stand, we stand for each other, if we must march, we march aware: no more dying as their footnote, no more ghosts that feed their chair. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You raise your glass, we raise our dead. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You sleep in silk, we sleep in lead. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You take the glory, we take the blame. Warm rooms! Cold graves! You write the story, we burn for your name.
