Injustice

He prepares for a carefree day, for jovial conversations, for cheerful smiles and lively faces. He’s a young boy. Just like me. My mind swells with ceaseless terror. I plead in my prayers that our lives shall prolong further than this day. I prepare for the grand attack. He ambles through the village. Laughter escapes the vivid frames of him and his companions. Not an ache in his limbs. Not a burden in his heart. I move anxiously ahead. My feet without ease omit swarms of bodies. Some still emit shallow breaths. Inadequate sounds escape their mouths and their eyes writhe. For him, time passes swiftly and a late train is the crisis of the day. In that day, not a thought does he spare for his fellow human beings. For our sacrifice he doesn’t care. As for me, time stays almost still. I’m imprisoned in a time warp of pain. My best friend clings off the un-cut wire and blazing bullets glide through the torn flesh of his chest. He lies in his bed. Wrapped around him a soft blanket, under his head a warm pillow. He’s a young boy. Just like me. But only the moist earth serves me as a cushion, and only the bodies of my lifeless friends serve me as heat. I lie in a shell-hole; I lie in my grave.