#how it's often choppy and not fluid and i guess just incredibly abstract

[cithaerons]

The War works with unparalleled diligence, Yet no one gives it a word of praise —Dunya Mikhail

Praise the war that cannot change course of rivers in this valley of omens and bomb-wounds.

Dear son, last evening, it took us forty-five minutes to defrost a tomato in water heated from Kerosene brought here last October.

Praise the war that could not puncture peaks—4590, 5140, Tololing; adorning them instead with ghosts of new martyrs and old narrative.

We don’t bathe from October to March. The truancy of hope keeps Chillblains away.

Praise the war that cannot melt ice, grow a tree, father fruits— in this valley of ‘whispers and small town clamour’

Ponies the size of logs carry 25 litre barrels in minus three degree. I accompanied a sprightly pony called Tillu. During our climb, Naik Birju Ram got frostbite. The pony was okay.

Praise the war that cannot not end; rising like a threnody from mountains, always approaching, but never quite there, until we find it like a stray bullet and silence

We take blood thinners. We melt ice water for drinking. Canned food slowly grows on you. Birju's ankle was amputated. The pony is okay.

Praise the war that gives us memorials, stories, films, novels, museums, advertising jingles, a reason, perhaps

The last blizzard blocked the TV antenna. I need to put out this Kerosene lamp. Moon shines on snow. I miss birdsong. I miss that pony called Tillu.

Ankush Banerjee, Kargil