She sits by her window everyday.
Waiting for her boys.
She has nothing to say.
Waiting for her boys.
She wakes up every morning just to look out the window.
Waiting for her boys.
Swirling around in the hall so narrow.
Waiting for her boys.
She prays every night to her sacred enlightment.
Waiting for her boys.
Wishing on a pure enjoyment.
Waiting for her boys.
Not the weak and vague scent of their presence hovering over her.
Till the day they come home safe and sound.
Till the day they come around.
Safe and sound.
Swirling around.
When the boys come home.
She will not feel lonesome.
And now waiting for her boys.
She collects their childhood toys.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 11:17 AM UTC
She sits by her window everyday.
Waiting for her boys.
She has nothing to say.
Waiting for her boys.
She wakes up every morning just to look out the window.
Waiting for her boys.
Swirling around in the hall so narrow.
Waiting for her boys.
She prays every night to her sacred enlightment.
Waiting for her boys.
Wishing on a pure enjoyment.
Waiting for her boys.
Not the weak and vague scent of their presence hovering over her.
Till the day they come home safe and sound.
Till the day they come around.
Safe and sound.
Swirling around.
When the boys come home.
She will not feel lonesome.
And now waiting for her boys.
She collects their childhood toys.
To every mother whose sons have died in wars
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