whispers in the trenches.

The moon hangs like a guilty lantern,

Spilling secrets onto the battlefield's canvas.

Shadows crawl, not of men but of intentions,

Each whisper a dagger, each silence a noose.

Promises crafted in polished halls,

Now rot in the mud where truth lies buried.

"Serve your nation," they chant with fervor,

But the anthem’s tune twists,

Dancing to the rhythm of hidden purses.

The trenches murmur with voices unseen,

A congress of ghosts and conscience.

"We fight for a flag," the soldier recalls,

But whose colors? Whose emblem? Whose profit?

Blood stains the soil,

Its worth weighed not in lives but in ledger lines.

Every bullet fired a receipt for the rich,

Every sacrifice, a footnote for the forgotten.

At night, the stars become spies,

Eyes watching, recording, betraying.

"Keep silent," they warn,

For the walls have ears

And the wind carries more than dust.

They fear the soldier’s tongue,

That unguarded weapon sharper than bayonets.

Each word unsheathed threatens their empire,

Each confession a crack in their facade.

The trenches echo with unspoken truths,

A chorus of dissent buried under orders.

The earth remembers, the soil weeps,

While power laughs behind iron doors.

So, the soldier buries his voice,

Another casualty of this war within.

For here in the trenches,

The whispers scream louder than the guns.