My Dearest. I can’t tell you where I’m going, nor when I’ll return. Here—is it pretty? you asked. Perhaps if we were on holiday together. If we could sit at leisure, smell the flowers, and drink the local wine. . . Well, that’s in the past, all the ifs–now the dogs of war yap and bark only for blood, and we must feed them. In the dirty days and unbearable nights, I think of you. In the unceasing gloom, the dismal war rooms, the crowded trains, the stinking rain—and the mud! God, the mud! I long for the touch of your gentle hand and remember your kisses. I long for clean linen and light–and for the sight of you. My darling, I carry your words against, hold them within my heart. Love always, Your Johann.
English translation: “Labeled postcard from Miss Nördingen to her fiancé John Ostermeir,” first Army Corps, 1st Division, Second Army Regiment. C. 1914-1918. Wikimedia Commons
Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge: “to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.”