After a long hiatus over the summer, I'm returning with a bit of a departure from the usual format. Regular posts expounding upon the First World War will resume shortly, but due to the nature of the date; I am presenting a short piece of fiction meant to inspire thought and reflection.
The Muezzin's call for morning prayer being sung from the small village half a click away amazed me. That an unamplified voice could carry so strong and far would give some drill instructors I know a run for their money.
That entreaty to speak with God was the last thing I heard.
The shaped charge ploughed through the sandbags in front of me, and who could blame it? It was designed to penetrate hardened steel.
And much as those that honour my memory; who saw me to my rest along that grey highway; there are those who decry my sacrifice. These are not those that killed me, but my own countrymen.
They say we shouldn't be there; that my comrades are fools. The irony is that they don't realise it is more for them than anyone else I put my life on the line- to ensure it is always a right the express oneself freely.
All that went before me, and those that died since have died for all of you. We shall not rest, and will continue to welcome those yet to die until the world can achieve the peace you protest for.
No comments:
Post a Comment