This is a scene that's been in my head for a long time.

HE CRIES...

His long hair brushes the collar of his battered leather jacket. He can taste the bitter dust of 2000 years on his toungue. Like the lone Joshua tree, he stands silent on the street corner as life flows around him. Shopkeepers call out their livelihoods looking for converts to the sale. Children ever strong and joyful chase their youth around the square seeking nothing but the moment. 

He pulls one more drag on a dying cigarette, the red coals flare. And he waits. 

He sees the young soldier, absolute in his resolve, marching to death's cadence as he enters the square and halts.

Their gazes lock for a moment and time suspends, an infinity of sadness. With a defiant shake of his head, the soldier holds hands with death and detonates destruction. 

The blast is a thousand storms and endless screaming that tears at the man's soul.

And he waits. Dust billows, sirens scream, and mothers wail. He crushes the cigarette with the heel of his boot. He stretches out his arms as the angels rise from the innocent battered bodies and seek him. 

He gathers the wing'd children, the stooped grandmothers, the shopkeepers, the lovers and the friends.  He takes them up to an angels rest. And he cries.