Remains

 The war does not end, 

when the guns grow tired.

It lingers

in the cracked walls,

in the silence of streets

that once carried laughter.

A rusted helmet

half-buried in dust

remembers a name

no stone was carved to hold.

Boot prints fade,

but the earth keeps

the weight of marching.

In the quiet fields

where bullets once

argued with the sky,

wildflowers rise

without asking

who won.

Children now run

through broken corridors,

their footsteps echoing

where commands once lived.

War leaves no monuments

as honest

as its remains—

a bent spoon,

a torn photograph,

a letter

that never reached home.

And somewhere

beneath the growing grass,

the past breathes slowly,

waiting

for the living

to remember.