You wake me from my insomnia

With a smile that blows the night away

You grab my hand and lead me astray.

In each others arms

We laugh and smile

I'm dreaming

I hear you speak but not your words

You tell me not to follow

 yet you keep looking back

When you run I try to chase

But my feet can't move

I'm sleepwalking

You tell me its impossible

Yet you keep pulling me in

You say you don't love me but I can feel your racing heart.

You are my Sandman

I’m finally awake

As Hans stood atop the Reichstag, he surveyed his once beautiful city. Berlin, now reduced to rubble and ashes from the constant bombing of the allies, stretched out before him, now a picture of devastation. Hans questioned what he had been fighting for all these years. The ideals and promises that once fueled his resolve seemed distant, lost in the smoke that rose from the city. The years of fighting had left him unrecognizable, not just to others but to himself. His eyes, although blue, lacked any real color, mirroring the lifeless reflection of the city. His face caked with dried blood and mud, reflected the scars of battle, both seen and unseen. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, and his legs wobbled, barely able to support the weight of his weary body. But he knew rest was not an option, not now. The war, though lost, still waged on in the hearts of men like him. The cold breeze on that rooftop was a grim reminder of the reality surrounding him. It carried the scent of death and destruction, a smell that he had unfortunately become used to. The rooftop of the Reichstag was a shell of what it once was, what once represented the beauty of Germany, now reflected its darkest moment. The Reichstag now harbored the scars of war, plagued by remnants of airstrikes. With the Allies fast approaching, the Reichstag now became the command center for the defense of Berlin. MGs and fortified positions were spread out on the rooftop manned by men who appeared as though they had died a long time ago. Below, the billowing fires spread across what was once a great city, consuming the remnants of a past that seemed like a dream. In the distance, rolling artillery signaled the relentless march of the enemy. A wave of despair hit Hans as he realized that this moment of peace and quiet would soon end. Berlin was surrounded, trapped by millions of Soviets to the east and millions more British and Americans to the west. All Hans yearned for was to pause time on this rooftop, to lay back with a canteen full of  water and escape the chaos that awaited him. Hans knew the war was lost, yet something within him refused to accept surrender. His determination to fight, a flame that not even the grim reality could extinguish, flickered stubbornly. The thought of surrendering to the Soviets was unbearable; he was prepared to die fighting rather than endure the nightmare of captivity. Lost in his thoughts, Hans was pulled back to reality by the distant sound of a siren, followed by the echoing yells of soldiers. It snapped him back to the harsh reality. With a deep, resigned breath, he grabbed his helmet and rifle, the familiar weight of the weapon grounding him. He descended the stairs, each step taking him further from the fleeting solace of the rooftop and back into the war-torn world. Hans merged into the darkness of the building, leaving behind the brief respite. He stepped into the chaos once more, a soldier clinging to the last vestiges of resolve in a city that mirrored his own fractured spirit.