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The inevitable melancholy [english competition]

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    This is my entry for the comp. 500* words (oops :P)
    Winter had made its permanent home in Tehran. Fresh, white snow blanketed the rooftops and rested on the branches of olive trees that lined the street. In the distance, the sun rests, not yet full of its afternoon’s brilliance; in the shade, dark green forests spread out in the foothills of the snow capped mountains.Some say the war had “outlasted daylight”, yet you can see it coming for a while, that familiar white speck, untouchable by the powerless victims below; the rain of bullets, like a flock of birds, descending down from the canvas of the blameless blue sky. War. As long as there have been men, it had tormented us. It is the scourge of civilization, the dread of mothers. Famine, pestilence; these pale in comparison to war. Fed by ambition and greed, sustained with uncountable lives, it lurks among us, waiting,patiently. Mutely. And when those in power disagree among themselves, when they hunger for yet more land, riches or resources, the beast springs from slumber.It leaves death and destruction in its wake. But why do we fight?You hear the laughter of the children outside? That is why. Do you listen, when among a great multitude, to the peaceful easiness of conversation between fellows, to the happy, raucous banter emanating from the tavern? That is why. We fight for necessity against the aggressors, the pillagers, the murderers, in the hope of a better future for our descendants, one free of unnecessary, man-made hardship and sadness. I sit here, in my study, in peace and silence, and muse on past times.I think of my comrades and friends, taken prematurely from their loved ones. I also think of those who have been left scarred by war, forgotten and unmourned while they yet live, reduced to begging by the loss of eyesight or limbs. I myself, bear two wounds; my limp, a gift from an Iranian horseman; my missing finger, relieved of me by wayward shrapnel. Indeed, I sit and think of old experiences, long into the dark nights, musing on what was and what could have been.Her. I contemplate her eyes, an oceanic blue; her thick, wavy, long black hair, how it had gracefully fell down to her shoulders and encircled her diamond-shaped face; how her whole body screamed of unnatural skinniness. But now, here in this place, it’s easy to summon Marina behind the lids of her eyes: the soft radiance of her gaze, the long chin, the coarsened skin of her neck, the tight lipped smile.“Is anyone there?” echoed the indistinct frequency of her voice, bouncing off the walls of the corridor. The three story building, with its broken windows and original dull crimson paint, still visible between sloughing chunks of plaster, was the home of rendezvous, for the teenage sector of Tehran. I stepped from the shadow, and responded a feint “Tashakor”. A wedge of moonlight streamed in through the window, and washed over her face.
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