War-Worn

He crouched in tears, clutching letters closely. Head bent, his bulk reduced by weariness. the weeping spelt relief. A letter was the most he hoped to see of home. War still seethed, and as noisy hell held sway, heavy shell sounds bounced around in rote. He daily faced lines of foe full knowing fear. Yet he had found that taste of home too much, and wept. The sign of weakness gone, helmet on, he sped away. We will never know his inner state, but we still see the image of this soldier's face. We need to urge our prayers for any war to cease, utterly.