I take a step onto the land, one foot
following the other in that ordered cadence learned from infancy. Pause, and
plant both feet firmly upon the ancient ground and allow the air to blow upon
my feverish face, I wait. I stare. Ages have passed; the earth has changed
forms, but ever it remains the same. What would the hills say if they could
speak? What of the roots of the trees as they dig deep into the ground, layer
after layer of rock and stone, into the depths that hide mysteries deep within
their holds? What do they encounter? A piece of earthen jar? A broken bronze
shield? A scapula? A skull fragment? Shattered spears and shrapnel? What
stories could they tell of fallen men and empires or of the way people lived?
Would we believe it if they did tell us those stories or are we too far beyond
the reach of the objective observer?
Long has time passed since then, and
long has the ground upon which we stand endured. And yet, not so very long when
compared to the spectrum of eternity… what is one life span in the great
expanse? The earth moves, changes, adapts. It is ever malleable, but ever
prevailing, even against machines of war. Caverns have been ripped into the
skin of the earth, but it healed, though rough edges of scars can still be seen
under the glorious beauty of a simple landscape covered in green grass and wild
flowers. Who could ever know, looking at it now, that such horrors had taken
place beneath my feet, the ground where so many lived and died naught one
hundred years before?
Plant feet firmly, imagination takes
flight. Close eyes as one deep breath gives way to two and realize that the air
no longer smells as pure and fresh as before. Carbonate, lead, dust and dirt, sulfur
as if the very fumes of Hell have come up to assail the senses. Cries, moans,
blasts of immeasurable size and consequence assault the temporal aspects of the
brain, and as my feet regain purchase on the shifting ground, I open my eyes to
discover the land is not as green as it had been just a moment before. Fog,
created out of the dust, makes it difficult to breathe, let alone see. It
suffocates, and the particles latch onto the sides of my lungs causing my
breath to come in short, shallow huffs. Green turns grey, black, and varying
shades of white as if living in a world without color. And yet, one color
remains strikingly clear and unchanged.
Life liquid pours to the ground,
tainting water and collecting in the pools and craters. It practically shouts
as it oozes and seeps from a fatal wound until it accumulates into a steady
stream, down the young man’s arm and off his fingers. It drip, drip, drip, drops,
quickly until his blood runs dry and the steadiness of his life ebbs away. Each
drip a shout, each drop a cry. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop. Until it fades away,
slower and slower, until the voice is silenced forever.
Does his body lie under my feet now?
Is it his moans I hear on the wind? Does his family know he died with their
picture close to his heart?
The ground is muddy and barely
stable enough to stand upon, let alone walk along, and yet, ghostly figures
before my sight creep ever forward, only to fall. Their cries and moans are
drowned out by the nameless face and his drip, drip, drop.
The third deep breath forces my eyes
open, and this time, it is not a body at my feet, but a flower. And one can
hardly know, if they stood where I stood, what history has written onto the
skin of the earth. There are few these days who can read the scars.
A tear slips past my defenses and as
the images from seconds before burn into my memory, it slips down my cheek. The
wind carries faintly, like on the edge of a dream, the sound of dying men en
masse, yet it gently kisses my face. First one tear and then another falls,
matching the echo of the blood spilling off fingers.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop.
They splatter the scarred, grieving ground.
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