The Soldier and his Lake
In the dead of winter, as dark clouds loom over the sky, as the blood of his fallen comrades stain the ground around him, the Soldier stands helpless, taking in every sight. Every red, every grey, every white.
As his comrades cries for help grow weaker, the thundering clouds boom louder. The weight of the air weighs down heavier and heavier upon his shoulders. But somehow the faces of his fallen comrades, forever relieved of pain and suffering, feels lighter on his heart.
The Soldier stands by the Lake. Slowly it turns from a bright shade of crimson to a dull tone of maroon. Life that drains from his comrades don't seem to make the Lake any livelier as the crimson rivulets confluence, meander and spill into it.
"What do i tell their mothers? Which keepsake should i show their fathers? How do i console every sister, girlfriend, wife or daughter?"
Questions he cannot answer. Answers he cannot have. The Soldier continues to ponder by the Lake while the cold slowly blankets every sight. Every red, every grey, every white.