Poem : The Writers Of War

The poet reads, For Whom The Bell Tolls
And wonders
Is this war?
Or is this poetry?
Hemingway and Gellhorn
Entangled in the bullets or war
Behind the barbwire coiled like springs
Lying for miles across the Spanish countryside
Two writers wrote without hesitation
When the sour smell of death hung all around them
Hemingway and Gellhorn continued to write
When the bombs falling on the front
Shook the tables on which they typed
Hemingway and Gellhorn continued to write
Two lovers
Two writers
Living life without the fear of tomorrow
For fear
For them
Had to be not living their lives to the fullest
On the edge of humanity
For they were the eyes of war
Reporting what they saw on the front
Seeing what the whisky could not wash away from their minds
Battlefields drenched with blood of the dying
War orphans roaming the streets
Mothers weeping over their sons not coming home
Lying dead on the hillsides of Spain
Hemingway and Gellhorn
The writers of war