A place of suffering, a golgotha. Each hill is such. The soldiers don't know what they want. Each home has at least one dead room. There is shrapnel in the white sausage grease of a skillet.
Windows burst like glass lungs.
Paprika, blood and gun powder. At the church Christ dangles from nails as usual. But mortar fire has interrupted his sorrow and his dying. A hole burst above his hip, his belly, into his chest. His entire left arm a vacant marble wound.