Daughter of the Sand

    The sand weeps; its grains are free with the wind, rebllious and daring to anything with order. It's seed's bear fruit not of its nation, for it then oppresses its people with an iron fist, and with murderous intent. Anything in it's path shall be held a treasure amongst its brow, to show proudly the very triumph that reeks the same as the blood spilled upon it. Like the words from the author; the very blood that cried out from the ground continues to cry even today.

    With grief and regret it hides, hiding not from the world, but instead it is hidden by the world. It's only lifeline is the very wind that carries it. Oh, cries the blood seeped sands, wilst ye help us now?

    Along riding, along riding with this sand, in it's sorrowful regret, a soldier, that he was called, a mere soldier. His company was not lone; the occupation of many men, their prescence the rock of his step, the hilt of his sword. With them they carried the blood of the sand; large metallic instruments--blazing of its sturdiness under the sun. With greatest of ease, born from it; the death of their foes. Like iron arrows that penetrated the roughest metal. They were dressed--full in colors that made them one, followers of their nation, warriors of their cause. In their hearts, the weapon of desire transformed them into the men who fought reckless in pride; no emotion was true. Saddness became their anger, their motivation. Their anger became their mission.

    The soldier, lone from the others not by prescence, but by cause, held deepest the image of his sacrififce. It is from this, that I learned such; I am his inspiration, I am his strength. I am the bullet of the chamber, the pain of his transgressions. I am the pride of his triumph. I am the humiliation in his suffering. I am the blood that he spills, I am the fear that he lives. I am the comfort of his task, the head of his spear. I am his cause, I am his reason. I am the hunger, I am the thirst, I am the sweat upon his brow. I am the heat upon his skin. Oh, cries the blood seeped sands, wilst ye help us now?

    The soldier hid far away, his image, for it only saddened his heart, and weakened his mind. And steady did the winds blow by the calming desert, that admist his silence and remorse, a voice, heavy and filled with years of untold misery, sounded in alarm to every soldier. And at last, a command was given. The obidient soldier readied his weapon, and sighed his last regret away.

    The machines that they rode in, large and heavy, began to slow; their tires among the grains of sand, the soldier's heart beating in rythm. And the commands were so, that they increased with every second, until at last, the soldier was gone from the machine, his boots now on the sandy floors--eyes adjust to all that he'd forgotten.

    There was, in the plain midst before him, the tiny figure of a child. With a face brown with dust, a lip curled in saddness, hair a mess, and tears that dripped to the sand floors. His hands clutching tightly a small brown bear, ragged and torn; stuffing hanging from its sides. Bear feet. Blistered and bleeding.

    The machines before the soldier were all halted before the word was given, "it's just a child!"

    The machines began to move, the familiar creaking of their parts.

      The soldier, lone from the others not by prescence, but by cause, held deepest the image of his sacrififce. It is from this, that I learned such; I am his inspiration, I am his strength. I am the bullet of the chamber, the pain of his transgressions. I am the pride of his triumph. I am the humiliation in his suffering. I am the blood that he spills, I am the fear that he lives. I am the comfort of his task, the head of his spear. I am his cause, I am his reason. I am the hunger, I am the thirst, I am the sweat upon his brow. I am the heat upon his skin. Oh, cries the blood seeped sands, wilst ye help us now?

    At sudden, all was strange, and ears rattled with the familiar sound of sounds, and fear antagonized the soldier as he lay twisted on the sandy floor, a fear he felt could never be faced. Yet in pain, he ignored it, because the child was gone, and gone away like the very image he had hidden.

    And the crackling of open fire, yet another familiar sound rang about like the tolling of bells. Now all was red, his vision was, his sweat cold, his mind thoughtful only of this; he payed his dues, took the one road out, the lond and hard road. He proved himself, and now his deeds were done.

    But for the others, he watched through blood and sand as the machine was impaled by surrounding gunfire, and the very men he shared his life with fell slowly from their feet to their knees; they clutched their heads and they fell defeated to the blood soaked sands, where they lay down their weapons, and their life. The machines were bright colors of red and orange and yellow, and the soldier breathed a breath of relief while he pulled from deep within himself, the image he had hidden for so long; the image of a woman, with a small girl.

    The soldier, lone from the others not by prescence, but by cause, held deepest the image of his sacrififce. It is from this, that I learned such; I am his inspiration, I am his strength. I am the bullet of the chamber, the pain of his transgressions. I am the pride of his triumph. I am the humiliation in his suffering. I am the blood that he spills, I am the fear that he lives. I am the comfort of his task, the head of his spear. I am his cause, I am his reason. I am the hunger, I am the thirst, I am the sweat upon his brow. I am the heat upon his skin. Oh, cries the blood seeped sands, so have you helped us now!

      To the soldier, who fought, and continues to fight.

      Iraqi Freedom, the never ending war.