People who are close to me die one by one. With death, on the war front appears the loneliness and, last but not least, the indifference to live or not.

I carry one of my comrades in one of the sanitary tents and watch him dying. Not my friend died, but just another man, because the war doesn't take into account the relationships between people, it doesn't take into account the life that existed before. War is the present, and beyond it there is nothing to be seen.

A young enemy soldier is behind us, we get him, he raises his hands, in one still holds the revolver, he doesn't know whether he wants to shoot or surrender. A shovel blows his face. The other sees this and tries to run, a bayonet bumps into his back. He jumps like a bow and, with his arms open, his mouth wide open, crashes forward, and his bayonet swings on his back. A third throws the gun and knees to the ground with his hands on his eyes.

We have lost any sense of solidarity, we almost don't recognize each other when any of us passes under our eyes of hunted animals. We are dead without feeling, dead, who, through a scam of a dangerous magic, can still run and kill.

There is no force pulling you beyond the barbed wire, there is no hope that you could return to the family without any problem. Sleep has lost its essence, and the soul of brilliance and gratitude.

Now we are tired, depressed, desolate, uprooted and hopeless. We can no longer find ourselves in anything from now on. They will not even understand us, because before us we have a generation that has lived, right with us, for years, but who once had a home and a profession and now returns to them, and will forget the war. And after us we have a generation, like us in the past, but who will be strange to us and will remove us.