Those who fight,
sink into the trenches,
where the earth clings to their boots,
and each breath is a love letter to survival.
But those who wait,
wage their own war—
a battle fought in the endless hush,
where every tick of the clock
is a heart beating out of rhythm.
The silence stirs—
a car hums at the gate,
its tires singing soft laments on the road.
"Is it carrying the words
that will shatter what remains of me?"
A newspaper strikes the doorstep,
its ink bleeding across white fields—
"Is there word of sorrow
rising from the distant tides?"