A hill among a thousand hills,
its flesh the earth —
soft mud, sharp thorn,
green breath of rot.
No herald calls it sacred;
no altar lights its dusk.
Men climbed, not heroes —
but meat to grind
beneath the drum of iron rain,
each step a fracture in the soul,
each breath a thread pulled taut
between existence and abyss.
Time unraveled,
folded in the jungle’s wet palm —
seconds stretched to black eternities,
the air thick with powder, sweat, and silent prayers
too frail to pierce the iron veil.
The name —
a butcher’s jest —
flesh ground to memory’s dust,
a cipher etched in blood and loss,
language dissolving into noise.
There was no gods’ lament,
no sacred hymn —
only the grinding silence
of flesh devoured by unfeeling gears,
a dance of death without meaning,
an endless trial of ruin.
Yet in that void,
a trembling flicker —
hands clasped in whispered grace,
a prayer folded in the marrow,
fragile blooms in the shadow’s clasp.
Hamburger Hill,
a mirror cracked and bleeding,
reflecting all the dark within —
the fracture where being slips
into the void,
where meaning shatters
and only silence remains.
Here, the human flower
wilted beneath the weight
of its own undoing —
the grim geometry of loss
etched deep in earth and bone,
an elegy
without requiem.
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