The man with earthquake hands

He sits as mute as a mountain
His demeanor hides a darker telling
A telling of a story too grim to have explained to loved ones.

His home is everywhere, yet nowhere
Everyone knows him, but don't know his name
He's the dirty man in faded clothes, a veteran of a long lost war.

With unshaven smiles, and earthquake hands
He greets all who come by, those he bled for
Those his brothers veins opened up with giving grace.

Who is he? No one knows, nor cares.
The time, drugs, sorrow, and grief, have been cruel to him
Not nearly as cruel as a thankless nation that sent him to burn.

But he knows this is his life, his home, his final purpose
A living reminder of the casualties of war
Holding his pride, his honor, with earthquake hands.