Victims, aren't we all

He stood on the hillock; his gaze crept over the field. It was cold; a frost that snuck up, and chilled all at once, the moment you let your guard down.

Brushing tears of realization from his eyes, his soul tore.

Bodies, piled upon corpses, upon more discarded dead. Men, women, children with empty eye sockets. Soldier and civilian, cheek to jowl.

Damned and Saintly, wrecklessly left, brought down by hatred.

This is the end he thought. Of all things.