Whispering white clouds floated across a blue sky, oblivious to this auspicious day of history piling itself into the air. Sons of God, all, gathered in a trench filled with mud and mice and men, depleted of energy and purpose.
One task. Carry out orders. The wire has been cut.
Six rungs to go over the top in a puerile attempt to claim a bit of bloodied mud. One job to do before they died. And they knew they were to die; hadn't they all been home on leave to say their goodbyes?
Six rungs. Fix bayonets. Focus.
Whispering white clouds scud across the horizon behind lines of white crosses, standing proud. 'Remember the dead' they say. Remember the fallen. Remember the sacrifice.
Are they at peace?
Wind blows into her face and stops the tears from sliding down to wet her collar.
So many beloved fathers, sons, brothers. All gone. Only the lucky few ones found a coffin at all. The wind will always blow across this open space of remembrance. There will be no quiet at all for those at peace. Something rustles unseen in the tall grass. is it a mouse or a memory?
Whispering white clouds hover above in a holographic sky. Free Earth is but a dream gone by. We escaped from the old wars, the Great war, into galactic ones.
Nothing ever changes however hard the wind blows. Men will always fight one another.
There is only one escape left.
The hosepipe will do its part attached to the belching exhaust.
I am exhausted!... will they understand the irony?
I will shut the door now.
The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan