Wartime

There are soldiers out tonight, even in this city. I have seen them in their clandestine suits. I have wondered about them through dreams.
Tomorrow will be another dream day for this fallen one. I am not broken or foresaken. Just fallen at this point.
From the top of the hill over there the scout can see everything and with that everything he cannot move. He want to tell his comrades what there is to come, but he just stand still and the whole world passes, at once, through his eye.
That is the nature of the scout. He has to understand it all. The soldier should understand very little if anything. There is this and there’s the hospital. There’s a nurse with a tender touch, or there’s another day.
When they saw the whites of the eyes the muskets came ablastin’. The scout dreamed, closed his eyes and composed letters to his wife.
There was 30 shot initially, and one when they came face to face. Was it brothers? Of course it was. In some place or not with a name or not. No names on placards or plce cards. There would be no wedding or funeral. Just some dirt sifting through fingers.
One last look at the moon.
My point being that the man who took the bullet and the one who sent the bullet are one and the same.