“Oh the snowflakes fell in silence…”. I strain my ears, trying to catch the sound of that carol, the song which brings back memories of that historic night in 1914. People say they know what happened, but it is just a story, a childish fairy tale. They ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ when they read of a halt in the fighting, prisoner swaps, exchanges of food and carol singing. If they knew what really happened on that day so long ago, they would be speechless, for it was truly magical. But I cannot tell them, as I lie dead in Flanders fields.
The air was cold and crisp – and although I was ice itself, I still felt the bitter chill that gradually became encouraged by a healthy breeze. As the last portion of my white body that was not yet blue with frost froze over, I gently landed in a ruby-red valley. There were jagged crags and cliffs that lined the edges of my new home. Desperately, I attempted to flee the red hell that I found myself trapped in, but only succeeded in melting to a point where I could not move. No – it was hopeless. Escape was futile…
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