Without aid, without help, without supplication, without a hand to touch, an eye to look into, without hope – the human in us tries to convince the spirit to abandon the pursuit or the knowledge of love.
This is how sailors are encouraged to board ships gloried and decorated for war; how hometown boys are thrust with momentum into the maw of some never ending conflict.
My brother, my literal brother. My kin. My childhood confidant. My one time ally. You who played with plastic dime store soldiers, who now thinks of yourself as an intelligent man.
It is you who proposes, without having actually sweated or grimed your way across a battlefield, without having heard the curses of the grieved, that war is a tactical game, a theater of players that are manipulable by cunning.
But the breath, or the heartbeat – the footfalls of those who are in full retreat; are they not also worthy of life – is not your enemy also a creation of your infinitely wise and forbearing God?