The stench of death lay heavy on the land;
Like a thick blanket of fog.
The dead and the living lay side by side on the soft, but broken, grass.
The dead lay motionless, wounds stitched into their cold, pale skin like a collection of tattoos.
The living lay filled with pain, their words few but thoughts many;
Wallowing in their prolonged suffering.
The unscathed are few and scattered like leaves in the breeze;
Scurrying between the dead and alive alike, picking up anything salvageable.
Although some escaped the physical harm, War left its fingerprint on all;
No one would forget it, no one would forgive it.