Blades of grass pressed to the earth left droplets of dew on the toes of their boots.
Ten men kept pace, evenly spaced, down an unbroken path without leaving a trace.
They followed, never slowed, to a place they did not know.
The distant sound of gunfire echoed their sorrow.
They didn't stop to listen; no cries from fellows, no lies were bellowed.
The night glowed, hallowed and proud, for weary travelers both young and old.
Two men wore gray, one man blue, another draped in browns, five wore white, and the last a sash.
Each dressed as they died. Following one another without guise.
In silence, as in life, they passed though the fields leaving little for others to feel.
Yet others came, from afar and near, as called to pass muster in the killing fields.
Unknown, as they were, names without destiny. Troubled souls; long forgotten, long ago buried, were no longer harried.
They left as they came, soon joined, in silence.
As they passed eleven became their number with the distant thunder.