They only fight because they are face to face.

Against each other, they are pursuing a common end.

Dimly, they kill themselves because they are alike.
And by day and by night, these two halves of war continue to lie in wait for each other afar, to dig their graves at their feet, and I am helpless.

They are separated by frontiers of gulfs, which bristle with weapons and explosive snares, impassable to life.

They are separated by all that can separate, by dead men and still by dead men, and ever thrown back, each into its gasping islands, by black rivers and consecrated fires, by heroism and hatred.
And misery is endlessly begotten of the miserable.
There is no real reason for it all; there is no reason.