Contemplating

They laid me down, naked and unshriven, in the freshly hollowed earth - fragrant and cold, on fallow land. Above me, the sky pressed down - close enough to touch. If my body were still my own, I would have wiped the dust streaks off my skin, I would have crushed the grass to have it scent my hands. I would have laughed, I would have roared of freedom. I would have cried. I would have closed my eyes. I would have mourned. 

 I died today.

Saranghamyeon An Doeni - Kim Nam Gil

Justice of the Mighty

  


   The victors - tattered heroes of this play, stand among the fallen, shivering and sweaty, scanning the mangled ruins of their stage. The fight is over and they're suddenly lost. There is no contender, there is no more conflict. They no longer serve a purpose. In the aftermath, the fields seem drowned in silence, and its thrumming loudness makes them wary. The air is murky and still, and they all seem reluctant to move, frozen in this grim picture of bloodied statues. Their cause had been the right one, made just by the stark proof of the outcome. This thought alone, and only the belief in its truth, could grant them peace in the face of all this devastation.

   As they watch the writhing mass of bodies slain, the sun gleams hotly on dented armors, scorching the battered flesh beneath as it splinters on discarded weapons in soiled glitter. Above the arid plain, carrion birds circle in ominous clouds, awaiting their share of the spoils, as the hounds of war tear at each other, snarling over the decaying remains of the battle.

   Sons of Ares, behold! Where is the honor in this waste? Glory - that tarnished fool's gold, once born on banners high and sung in raucous revelry, lies now in tangled shreds, foul and faded, among the crumbling trophies of this war.

There is no triumph in winning.