WHAT YOU THINK YOU SEE.

What you think you see is a man at prayer, but he could be just a man tired of war, eyes closed, head in hard hands, sitting there. He sits in mud, his uniformed backside stained, smeared, like a young boy having played some ball game in a muddy field, with broken wagons and dead horses and men lying all about, stuck in or sucked in mud of clay. What you think you see is now frozen in time, dead men or horses counted in millions far beyond the minds conception, lay scattered here and there, as if some god had cast a hand or arm to clear (like some bored child) his view of toys,

all games grown stale. What you think you see in sepia echoes through the days of now and years of yore, the folly, the all unstoppable, called war.