They read the words but miss out between the lines,
As though the struggles of yesterday,
Could somehow be wished away,
Our reality still reflected the barren wastelands and land mines,
And because we had all our limbs,
That we were fine.

We weren't.

Psychological trauma is an old friend of ours,
He drinks with us at night hours,
Sings to us when we are falling asleep,
And with every light, there he is around the corner to creep.

The sounds of fireworks and firecrackers brings us back,
to that place where the shells once cracked,
And bodies became charred in complete black.

I could remember one of the days I was with my brother,
We were close because we grew up without a mother,
We ran miles and miles without a single smile,
Because nothing was hopeful not even for a small while.
I thought that death was approaching when the soldiers came in,
Their green uniforms and some of them familiar faces,
I thought I was going to die.
   And when you welcome the thought of death,
   You start to realise how much you have left,
   And to me that was your grandparents,
   Because I knew after I go, there's no inheritance,
   No food, no money, nothing left to keep them alive,  
   And thats why I did my best to survive.
Tragic however, my brother didn't make it,
We ran and ran but somehow he was still taken,
And thats why war is hell,
Because even in the sound of life's shattering bells,
I can still remember him telling me to run.