What do they know of pain?
He asks himself that very question as he watches the laughing couples twirl across the town square, the females wearing colorful skirts that are swirling around their ankles, and they all have curls and bright, beautiful butterfly-clips in their hair. Children, parents, and elders clap their hands and tap their feet along to the beat of the drum and the sound of the singer's sweet voice.
They're (painfully obviously) unprepared for the war. His eyes, so hollow when once full of life, are watching. Teenaged girls point him out, leaning over the window sill and turn to each other, mouths moving quickly and laughter breaking out among their group as one lazily raises her hand and salutes him. However, he doesn't smile. He's pondering what will happen once the war sweeps through, cold and swift and sharp and not stopping, no matter what.
They are, just like him, unprepared for what happened in his life. Maybe, like him, they won't ever be, no matter what amounts of time are given.