Buck/Bill Drabble
Paths Tread:
Not any winter's fire nor warm summer's breeze could steal the chill from your bones Bastogne had left there.
The images. The cries. The cold, that seemed to come from within as well as without.
You knew the minuet you saw him laying there.
That ravaged limb. Bleeding onto the perpetually stained snow.
No matter how freshly it had fallen, it was always dirty. Stained with the blood and the silently shed fears of so many soldiers, past and present.
It was just yesterday you had been learning about the Goths and Visigoths. Now you were standing frozen, staring down at a man you loved, bleeding, dieing on the grounds they had once tread.