Devyn Regueira
Asked the French corporal, who were pitiful there in soiled rags that had been a uniform and splayed atop the bloodied mush that in 1913 had been sovereign soil, of the Traveler, who’d ridden majestic from some future age in his silvered chariot to speak frankly with him, “Tell me, Traveler, when the people in your distant time look back upon it, what will they call this Hell, this end to all civilization; what will they call this war to end all wars?”
Said the Traveler, solemn as he ventured to leave, having seen and heard what he’d needed but reminded that the fairer time which had commissioned his travels meant not to commission his aid, not for this Frenchman nor for the German across the pockmarked earth, not for the better, nor for worse, “We’ll call it the First.”
Said the Traveler, solemn as he ventured to leave, having seen and heard what he’d needed but reminded that the fairer time which had commissioned his travels meant not to commission his aid, not for this Frenchman nor for the German across the pockmarked earth, not for the better, nor for worse, “We’ll call it the First.”
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