“I thirst,” said the Russian tank officer, leaning against the turret, blood oozing from his shoulder onto his jacket.

“I thirst,” said the Ukrainian soldier tightening a tourniquet above his ankle seeping blood, his mouth twisted in anguish.

“I thirst,” said the scarved grandmother holding her toddler’s hand, watchful of potholes lest she fall.

“I thirst,” said the battle-terrified youth seeking a means to desert within the mayhem of the next explosion.

“I thirst,” said the field reporter, dismayed by her empty thermos bottle and too far from the station to replenish it.

“I thirst,” said the teenager sheltering a puppy in his hooded coat as he shivered in the cold, his village just strafed by mortar shells.

Many also thirst far beyond the war zone: those tending the  supply lines, those strategizing the next strike, those searching casualty lists, those suturing new wounds, those listening for glimmers of hope, those praying from arroyo-like depths.

And there was Another who cried, “I thirst!” who shares our thirst.