The last major German offensive—
the Battle of the Bulge—
even winter held its breath.
The final convulsion of the Reich,
the last great thrust of a fractured command.
Observe them:
men in steel-grey livery,
defending a race they no longer know,
raising flags for a people already lost,
chanting pride for a face they no longer wore.
The nation they swore to shield
had shifted beneath them—
its soul rewritten.
Yet linger—do not look away.
Regard their gaze:
eyes that were blue in the summer of '33
now burn,
red,
lit from within by voices not their own.
And so the eye turned:
from wonder to flame,
from childhood to uniform.
The Battle of the Bulge—
not merely a clash of arms,
but the recoil of the human tongue,
retracted from those who wielded it falsely.