TO FIRE HIS SOUL

In the beginning was the breath. A low rumble that started from just below his navel and tingled a warmth and familiarity through my body. It seemed as if his breath had been my own, forever. He was so much more than love -- so full of colors that mirrored words and stained promises and echoes. But over our spot of vast expanse, ferrous rain fell one by one by the thousands, 'til the fires that lit his soul were extinguished, became unrecognizable. How must it feel to shed skin, 'til nothing's left but sore bones?

His tears washed the ash off the ground and he swore he could do no more. He needed an arm, a shoulder, a chest, a wisp of skin to make him feel as real and solid as the concrete that were once sidewalks. They used be littered with the white and pink flakes of cherry blossoms and once reverberated with thousands of footsteps. But that was before the bombs fell; that was before his world became incomprehensible. Death, dying, funeral drums--he's used to them--but never so much at one time. The eradication of his people had signaled a fracture in the clemency of nature, signaled an inimitable loathing radiating from a higher power.

It was the glory of the coming of a fallen god, Mephistopheles in a soldier's guise; a soldier in defence of a border. In the eyes of a patriot, the equation of war runs so: "This body+this nation=my soul." But I wonder, has he ever tried to see beyond the colors of the fabrics that clothe someone's body? Has he ever tried to understand the stance of a killer, or his own?

I wonder if there is evil incarnate? Mass graves will make you believe in a higher power, but not necessarily a forgiving one.

TBC...