Young man far from home

In a unkind land fighting a war he doesn't understand

The night blooms with mortar rounds thundering in the distance 

Beat of his heart a ragged staccato against his ribcage

Pinpricks of gunfire like fireflies in the gloom

Rumble and jingle of war's machinery grate against his nerves

Boyhood friend beside him cold, silent and stiff

Eyes staring to a distance homeland

His journey done

Alone in this mud filled gouge 

Thoughts of home keep him sane as death stalks the land

Fingers fumbling in the dark unearthing a dull shell from the mud caked ground

Fragment from death's hands

Hands trembling, knuckles white, breath a frigid mist on his lips

Sweat dripping from fear's brow

Knife in hand, he starts to scrape and carve 

The night recedes, rumbles of war disappear

The smell of roses and chrysanthemums invade his head

By touch the cathedral grows in his hands

A bastion of safety and light where he married his childhood sweetheart

Hour after hour, minute by minute, home abounds in his hands

In a trench filled with the stench of death and corruption riding the wind

While bombs blew dirt flew and havoc filled the air

One man whittled and carved his way home

Remembering a soft sigh, a wife's smile

The bump of their unborn child

He carved his hope of home and carried it in his hand