Oh How Ghosts Must Cry

One hundred years ago the madness of WorldWar 1 ended after four desperate years of suffering and death too horrendous to imagine.

I think of the grief of millions of innocent men, women, and children caught up in the misery of indiscriminate war. I think of those long dead soldiers, who fought for Great Britain, Germany, France, and others from distant countries across the world, each believing God was on their side.

I imagine they rise as ghosts from innumerable tombstones, and from the pitiless earth of former battlefields. Without a spoken word they join together in their thousands and begin walking across those killing grounds they once fought and died over, now of sweeping fields of wheat and corn. This tattered throng bears no malice, nor carry weapons or flags. Moving slowly in long lines across rivers, hills, and valleys. they no longer feel soft rain on their faces or the warmth of the sun on their backs. Oh, how ghosts must cry as they pass memorials erected by respectful nations in remembrance, and feel at once infinite gratitude and profound sadness.

When they lived they dreamt of returning home to loved ones, in death, they weep bitter tears of eternal regret. Now finally united as one they move forward, forever heading towards endless sunsets.