There’s beauty in his world. It was easy to forget that. When news of more death filled the headlines. Another picture of the anguished surrounding a body. Everyone covered in dust and blood, arms raised to heaven. Another bomb, another explosion, another attack.
He walked the hills. Why was it this way? What happened to the poets, and artists, and musicians, and writers, and storytellers? Why wasn’t it their faces and words and deeds that were talked about? The gun in his hand a cruel reminder that he was a piece of the very thing he hated. What could he do? Throw it down and walk away? Who would protect the border? It felt as though there could be no end.
That couldn’t be true. It was too awful to consider. That his home, his part of the world, was destined to forever know suffering was not a fate he was willing to accept. And if he wouldn’t accept it, surely others felt the same. He sat, lay his rifle on his lap, and settled his gaze on the distant snow-capped mountains. Wind brushed his face. The flapping of the flags the only sound. Who planted them? He wondered at that. He’d seen them, but not spent any time thinking about them. Now he did. Was it an art installation? Was there some hidden meaning? Or was it someone doing the only thing that made sense to them in a world where so little did?
Here was a moment of peace. A moment he would cherish. These small gems of beauty. Each one precious beyond measure. If only everyone could see it.