Ash and blood floating on the wind. Under diseased palm trees baking in the damp sunshine he woke. Worn to a shadow. Flies were laying eggs into the puss-filled wound that spread over his shin. He swatted them with a trembling hand but gave up on their fifth return. Dissolved into tears. The last of the helicopters had long since left and only foreign voices filled the void around. Closed both eyes, hoping the pain would end. Hoping that the war was just a sour tale of dreaming. Water dripped from the leaves and mixed with the sound of distant gunfire. His strength faded and poured into the ground, leaving grey pools of dead eyes. Blood and skin. Bones to dust.