Come and walk with me for I will show you what I have seen.
The warriors of the mountain, men and women, civilian and military, walk the halls of the hidden base. The silent ring standing proud and tall in the guarded room, the doorway to battlefields of the stars. Through this ancient device, lay unseen battlefields, horrific and grim, too boggling for the unwary citizen.
Yet the warriors travel from their homes into these same raging battlefields, wary and alert, weapons at their sides. The mighty clash between man and Jaffa, dark green against bright silver; the cries of the dying, the silence of the dead, the wailing of the grieving. Sounds of the discharging weapons, the crack of the hits, and the thumps of the fallen.
Iwo Jima, the Battle of the Bulge, Vietnam, D-Day; all have places where loved ones place red roses, velvet soft teddy bears, white letters underneath heavy weights. But these far battlefields have no place for remembrance. No marble wall, no bronze monument, no towering statue, no polished stone. Nothing except for the standing silent ring and the bustling base in which it stands. There is no sacred ground in which to honor those dead warriors, no land to consecrate, no place to stand and watch as time hide the fields of a raging war.
Maybe that is excusable for maybe, just maybe, those same warriors who have fallen still walk through the grey halls of the hidden base; in the people who continue to fight. Watching the living go through their daily lives from their places in another world. No sacred ground is needed for the fallen have returned home, back onto the land they have died protecting. The hidden base is the sacred ground, the land which the warriors guard; those who live, those who die, those who have, those who will. A place where time moves forward and yet stands still, the ghosts wandering from room to lab to office. An earthly presence created from many in a time of grief, suffering, and pain, joined in a single cause.
The battlefields ever changing, the ground shifting, the enemy changing. A place where the foreign suns and unknown winds blow upon. The place where blood was spilled, where the dead warriors fell in their dying throes; but that is for the critics. One may think sacred grounds are marked by lush rolling fields, marble graves, bronze statues that gleam in the light. But in fact, their sacred ground is a military base with grey walls, made of concrete and still, hidden from the rest of the world; an unrecognized place or grievance, remembrance, and honor for the fallen.
Come and walk with me, for I will let you see what others have not seen. The sacred ground hidden from prying eyes, where warriors walk upon as they enter the battlefields through the dark grey ring standing proud in the guarded room. Seen by the ghosts of their peers and fallen friends.