White Death on Marmolada.
The wind howled fierce, a mournful song,
Across the peaks, where winter's strong.
On Marmolada, white and grand,
A soldier's haven, built of sand.
Franz Josef's troops, in trenches deep,
A frozen war, a promise to keep.
But nature's wrath, a silent foe,
Would claim their lives in chilling blow.
A Friday morn, the air grew still,
A heavy weight, a mountain's will.
The snow piled high, a teetering load,
A whispered threat upon the road.
A crack, a rumble, then the roar,
A tide of white, to crush and pour.
The barracks frail, no match for might,
Swept from the mountain, lost to sight.
Hundreds buried, beneath the snow,
A silent tomb, where dreams would go.
No gunfire's echo, nor bugle's call,
Just frozen silence, claiming all.
White Friday's name, a haunting cry,
A memory etched, beneath the sky.
Of soldiers lost, in winter's hold,
A story whispered, brave and bold.

© rossdops