Found

I lay down my arms. The Battle is over. No one has won, I don't think. I see them all leaving. I do. The ones lying on the ground. I hear their last breath. It is a whisper of a plea. It should be a shout. It should have yelled, "Stop!" long ago. But it didn't. And it couldn't. Only on the brink can we see such truths. Only when faced with the conclusion can the summation of life seem so clear, so pointed.

I kick the rusty rifle out of my sight to the left. I take a few steps. I am bent, almost to fall. But I must see, and I must understand. Not being on the brink, I grow old with worry. I have not lost, and I will not claim a victory. I will not face this sight again. One more exhale, and I might seek my last. But wait. There is still something else. In the air. One moment please. One moment, wait, you fallen foes, friends. It is I who feel alone, not you. It is I, in the space you have left. Cross legged sitting takes a load off.

The winds have won this time. They would not claim this land, but to ceaselessly wear on it. To carry us messages. Of delight, of change. It would occupy our hearts, and bring to us what is strange. But man would rule. And we can rule nothing now. If there is no one left, then I shall die alone. If there is one person found, then we shall see.

With eyes opened up, there is only straight ahead. A newness to this land. A freshness to the soil. Many years after all bodies have been claimed. A broad expanse, with only bright hills to eclipse a perfect horizon.

The way we walk, no one shall talk. We are past the time of speech. We are on to different things. Things more evenly shared. We are now meeting the day. If we stood hand in hand and arm in arm, there'd still be nothing to speak. The quiet eludes to something greater. The heart anticipates this, you see. It knows, and it waits. It is not ashamed.

Again we ride. Less narrowly than before. We cross all unclaimed fields. The paths are beaten right.

Into mist we all dissolve. And then we meet one end. And then we shall see.