Propped against the crumbling wall of a makeshift trench, the rain washed over him. It poured over his upturned face and hid the tears, blood mingling with the water as it sluiced down into the mud.
For a moment, when the sharp crack of gunfire and dull thud of the mortars had stopped, he thought that he could hear the distinctive sound of imminent rescue. It was getting darker and the temperature was dropping, but the sound grew louder until it was all he could hear. He tried to turn his head, open his mouth, tell them that it was going to be OK.
In an important strategic valley that held nothing of value to anyone, the greatest poet the world would never know died.