The battlefield that is not

The feeling of being on a battlefield. But a quiet one. One without soldiers or gunfire. No explosions. Just the quiet of the dead. An yet. Not even that. Dead would be a relief for some of these poor grief-stricken and starved beings.

Starved not only of hunger, but for love, for a moment of peace. A moment of not worrying. What would they give for it. Such sad longing. Such desperation.

This is a battlefield of mothers. Of their children. Sons and daughters. But not husbands nor men. They are not here. They are fighting for their side. For the others side. For peace. For war. Just there is no fighting for peace. Fighting won't lead to peace. It never does. It can't.

So what am I thinking? Of destruction of war. Of desperation as I am unable to fathom the cruelty of men. The harsh reality.

The battlefield that is not. One without soldiers or gunfire. There is something worse. The absence of these. The quiet. The one before the storm, without knowing when it shall return. Not if. Never if. As it is always just a matter of time. For it to return that is. It hangs above these people. Of these beings bereft of all hope. Hangs above them like the blade of a guillotine.

You are here with me are you not? Don't leave me alone. In this quiet terror. The world waiting for me to die. Waiting for us all to die. Let's stand together shall we not? Talk to me, so I cannot hear the quiet. Or bring me lightning, so that I can at least tell when the thunder comes. So I can see the storm and embrace it. For the big storm has to come. The thunder to disrupt the silence. And the wind to blow away all evil. Even if it costs me. My life. But never my freedom. Never my believes. Never my will. Never my conviction. Never my soul.