Looking down from atop the knoll, plain white markers, degraded by weather and time, spread out uniformly like a well-practiced parade regiment.
From where I stand, the speckled fields stretch toward the horizon. Each generation, each year, each day, each hour the sward fills with more and more dead.
No flowers are left by the grave marker by surviving loved ones. No shells adorn the stones sealing in the spirits. Here they are free to roam.
The whispers in the trees carry across the field to the hilltop. Voices rising from the stones, yet never breaking their earthly bonds.