Life is a war; we are its soldiers. We conquer hearts that are homes to many, and often destroy them. We act wounded, and wait for someone to pick us up and tell us everything is going to be okay. In the war of life, some soldiers die, and others survive, but most of them carry emotional and physical wounds as if they were gifts from souvenir shops. The Wounds last. And memory of war is no evanescent flame, rather an eternal one that haunts every one of its survivors till the day Death does them justice.
Topic(s) of this poem: life, war
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.