We had forgotten it, as we had forgotten the number of the days and even their names.

Always we made one step more, always.
Ah, the infantry soldiers, the pitiful Wandering Jews who are always marching! They march mathematically, in rows of four numbers, or in file in the trenches, four-squared by their iron load, but separate, separate.

Bent forward they go, almost prostrated, trailing their legs, kicking the dead.

Slowly, little by little, they are wounded by the length of time, by the incalculable repetition of movements, by the greatness of things.

They are borne down by their bones and muscles, by their own human weight.