Outside the mobile hospital vans, a red mist spray patterns the ground. Footsore, a hard winter, the long road bleeds us all, and still the red mist falls. I can’t feel my hands! The edge of hunger brought me here. I watch a fat man carry a boy over frozen ruts, snow lit orange from the lanterns. Surgeons mark time in the yielding light, from cots dipped in misery, the flight of souls. I try not to look, but I hear the soft whispers from shrapnel holes, grey as grave light. It’s all too late, they cry. Another man, with a yellow scarf wipes his face, calls for his wife, then dies.


Eley Furrell
Illustration Nick Victor


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