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For weeks I wandered, from one canteen to another, from one battle pack to 
another, seeking the morsel of food there-in stored. Mournful the wind whistling 
through the bones, and shattered dead, a ghoulish symphonic crescendo of finality, 
it was over, we must have won. Yes my side had won for I was the last 
survivor. "Sweet," was not the word for this victory. Walking on, and on through the 
towns and cities, I realized that those leaders had gotten included after-all. Oh yes, 
everybody had been sucked into the voracious conflagration. 

Crazy, yes, I was crazy for the visions of my travels began to change, and no longer 
did the torn dead people meet my eyes. Each day brought a fresh array of color with 
which to greet me. Now it was the flowers, which I sought, those survivors, of 
splashing color springing up through the rotting souls and bones of the deceased. 

An ever changing bouquet, every color, every shape, and I reveled in their 
proliferation. Like a new marching army they filled the landscape. A niggling thought 
started without bidding, and exactly when this occurred I cannot recall. Truth be 
known, it did not matter when it started, for what was, without refute, was the 
truth of its conclusion.

Tears were my constant companion at this enlightment. “There is no winning in war. 
There is only dying.” The impact of this folly caused me to fall to my knees. Face-to-
face with a Sunflower I asked the question.

“Why do you not hate the flowers of different shape and color? Why do you not pull 
up your roots and march into war? Damn you, answer me. Surely you feel the sirens 
cry to set the world right for your kind? Where are your leaders to point out the 
hated difference, and to direct your cleansing efforts?"

I became aware of the stupidity of my quest for these answers. After-all, everybody 
loved the flowers, and touted their beauty. Their enigmatic silence provided the 
answer, and I heard it clearly.
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