The Enemy

He saw him lying on the ground, bleeding from his chest. He recognized him as the enemy soldier who had shot at him earlier. He felt a surge of anger and hatred, mixed with fear and relief. He had survived, but his enemy had not.

He walked towards him, holding his rifle. He wanted to make sure he was dead. He wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes and feel victorious. He wanted to avenge his fallen comrades, his friends who had died in this war.

But as he approached him, he noticed something. He noticed a small book in his hand, a book with a familiar cover. He bent down and picked it up. He opened it and saw the words he knew so well. It was a book of poems by Saadi Shirazi, his favorite poet.

He looked at the enemy soldier again, and saw him differently. He saw a young man, not much older than himself, who loved poetry and had dreams and hopes. He saw a human being, who had a story he had not heard. He saw a friend, who had become an enemy.

He felt a pang of sadness and regret. He wished he could talk to him, to share his thoughts and feelings, to understand him and his reasons. He wished he could end this war, this senseless violence, this hatred and fear. He wished he could be his friend.

He closed the book and placed it on his chest. He said a silent prayer for him, and for himself. He stood up and walked away, leaving him behind. He wondered if he would ever find peace.