The Snow Between The Trenches

Martin and Allen, two marines, are drinking themselves stupid and sharing stories. Allen asks for a happy memory, and is surprised when Martin states "Northrend"; then he tells her this one, and she both laughs and cries, and promises to compose it into a poem.

I later found out that Martin's player based this on a real WWI story, which breaks my heart even more; I hope this poem, minuscule and silly though it may be, will serve as my tribute to those soldiers.
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The Snow Between The Trenches

In Northrend, Snowland, Winter Veil,

The night-storm calmed at last

And soldiers pray with faces pale

To ghosts of winter past.

The east – Alliance, blue and gold

Their ditch now filled with dead

At west – The horde, their voices hoarse

With battlecries unheard.

What is this one night we now share

With weapons in our clenches?

It's not mulled wine that colours red

The snow between the trenches.

An orc then stands with arms in air

His white flag tattered, stained

He walks towards Alliance's lair

Across the snowy plain.

A blue-gold envoy marches up

His weapons tight abrace

The orc kneels, smiling, stands and throws

A snowball at his face.

What is this one night we now share

With weapons in our clenches?

The red-green leaves are dead beneath

The snow between the trenches.

And so the night was bathed with joy

Of weapons laid aground

And hardy soldiers on both ends

Tossed snow balls all around.

At dawn, their faces pink with frost

Their grim-smiles speak goodbye

They trudge into their trenches lost,

To fight and then to die.

And morning's battle boils the field

With death's vile stenches

As dull-eyed heads roll, painting red

The snow between the trenches.