In the barren land of a lonely place,
near a village of northern face,
there was a bar where people came,
after the hard day with the penny they made,
some drink to forget their past,
and some to start another day,
no matter the season the place was always
full to pay.

On a chilly night of december evening,
the door opened with an unfamiliar face,
judging by the pace he had a rough day and
a mess,
they stared at him with gazing eyes,
looking as if he was cold as an ice,
face full of beard and eyes soaked by tears,
he asked the bartender for a drink to cheer,
in return he was asked where was he from
and what was his story.

He started his memoir of the past taking a sip,
remembered all at once with a breathe long dip,
Zalta was the place where i was born,
lived with parents,family and brothers along,
until the day the place was hit with dispute,
and declared a war on the following day.

His brothers ran and so was he told,
but he remained with his parents and the war
unfold,
his wife and daughters kept him holding and
believing,
until the storm hit their gates without their willing,
parents shot dead,wife and daughters ***** and killed,
in front of his eyes till he was dead within.

He was shot in arms and legs and left there to die,
pain and grief withheld, no tears to cry,
he woke up with a dead soul and a wounded body,
teared was the heart with sheer misery,
broken bones and tattered soul,
finished his drink with another sip of smelly foul.
Those gazing eyes are now filled with tears,
nothing they said, just the silence to hear,
he paid his bill and left the place,
in search to cure his soul with holy grace,
emotions were dead so was his spirit,
in search of some place where he could die
in peace.