One More War

He carries like a fresh, still itching scar a neatly trimmed mustache, a remnant of the burdensome beard of a mad war; he scrapes away the debris in his memory, rediscovers, regains his childhood faith, a long-forgotten, but faintly felt reverie; it's like hardened molten rock now, unidentifiable, it's as crude as a splash of cold iron slag, yet, it's there, his faith, enduring, undeniable; and seems to him in this metropolis of peace, where everyone fights cruel, capitalistic battles, his faith keeps him safe, his mind at ease.