It was in Catalonia that I first began to understand.
Where the highest officer to the lowliest soldier was still “Comrade”.
When brothers from around this world went to fight for something, something we thought tangible.
Now it’s some outpost, it’s cold, we have few weapons to spare.
My own rifle was a beaten Muaser, and little comfort.
And the machine guns would cackle at us, ragged figures in our great coats, searching for firewood.
The trenches were home, home was what we made it to be, some dead today, others the next.
But you sweet Catalonia, you made me know what it is to live.
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From the sketchbook, and with literary reference for added bonuses! I really enjoyed drawing this as a contemplative practice done this afternoon.