It begins with the same prayer,
words rising from both camps
as incense burns beneath identical stars.
On one side, a voice lifts to heaven,
carved with the certainty of right.
On the other, the same breath,
echoing in reverse—
both sides speaking a truth
that mirrors itself in the silence between.
The banners fly with the same symbols,
stitched in gold and blood,
and the swords flash in unison,
striking the air like mirrored lightning.
Each soldier steps forward,
believing in the same light
that blinds his enemy,
believing the ground beneath his feet
is more sacred, somehow,
than the dust that rises on the other side.
The trumpets call,
and they march into each other's faith,
the sound of their footsteps blending
into a single pulse,
the heartbeat of a god
who watches from a place
where names mean nothing,
where blood has no preference.
Each side believes they hold the secret,
the favor of heaven pressed into their palms,
a victory foretold in the quiet glow
of their sacred fire.
They speak of it in the night,
whispering to themselves
of how the other will fall,
of how the divine will tip the scales
with a slight of hand,
invisible and just.
But when the swords clash,
and the shields split,
there is only dust and breath,
only the hollow sound of belief breaking
against belief.
The irony
written in the sky,
The laughter of the wind
that has no master,
no allegiance to prayers.
They fight,
thinking their god watches only them,
thinking their god waits on the hill,
ready to crown them with the ashes of the fallen.
But the truth is buried in the silence,
in the way the earth takes them both,
in the way the sky does not blink
as the smoke from both fires rises
to the same heaven,
where no one waits.
Perhaps, next time,
they will see themselves in the enemy's eyes.
