Content with watching, he stood at a distance.
Looking over the vastness of what had become.
Watching the uprising but not taking part because from where he stood, he could see both sides – and they looked the same.
Young men, screaming the passions of their minds into the faces of their brothers, and their brothers screaming mirrored passions.
And from where he stood it sounded like a sad melody.
A tune going in rounds, like so many children’s songs.
Flowing over and over into unintentional harmonies.
Sounding like a choir of voices from this distance.
Singing their verses while their mothers and children sang solos – playing high like violin strings over a background of minor chords.
He wondered if they were able to hear the choir or just their own individual parts.
He stood at a distance and prayed for them to notice what their voices could do together.
If they could only hear.