Clouds, those formless daughters of the sea, gracious mothers of rivers, faithful concubines of the wind. To soldiers guarding those rain-tortured lands, clouds are the gates of hell that open to send rain to assault their fragile corpses. As the rain falls on the dirty uniforms, it washes away the filth that their muddy coffins had left on them, and in exchange it soaks what little warmth is left out of their bones. Some of those soldiers have embraced the cold rain, welcomed it as it whipped their hallow bones, and thrashed around the loose parts of their coat.
However, telling you this while we stand over their corpses is a moot point. The orders came on high from the desk of a man, who never held steel or tortured his hands, to bury them in one grave so that their hollow bones may not feel lonely.
And do you see that man over there? The only one smiling; the one hugging an umbrella. Well, he has an interesting story, they all had, but I think you want to hear this one. A few kilometres back was a small town. The general thought capturing it was worthy of a military parade through the town's main road, it was a depressing sight. Injured soldiers marching in bloody uniforms on muddy roads through a war-torn village, but somehow in this grim state, a woman this cadet saved recognised him. Between all of us, she approached him, and gave him her umbrella and told him to keep it and come to her after the war and show her the umbrella so they could marry. Everyone in the unit envied him… except me.
I don't know if it was Providence or sheer luck that he didn't keep night watch where I did. I saw the same woman that brought our friend such joy in the arms of another man, and a second man the next night, and a third man the next night. All of them would come with two full sacks and leave with both empty. Why didn't I tell him? Why kill a man's joy? Before he had that glorified stick with a bed cover at the end, he was the most cynical man in our unit, jumping head first into danger to cut his life short, but now he had found his reason d'être, even if it was a prostitute's embrace. So here he lays hugging her umbrella like those men around him hug the cross, smiling, while they frown.