He awoke not to dawn,
but to fire.
a night ripped open
by the shriek of shells.
Blood clung to his chest like a second skin,
smoke choking the name
he wanted to cry:
Ma…
She lay still,
crumpled beside the hearth,
where warmth once lived.
He could not rise.
His legs, injured and broken
like the promises of peace,
refused to obey.
So he dragged himself,
each inch a scream through his ribs,
just to place one trembling hand
on her already cold forehead;
a final touch of solace, fragile and late.
No one in the village had anything to say anymore.
Even the wind fell silent.
Doors hung ajar like unhealed wounds.
And the fields, once green with hope
stood waiting, untouched, uncut and forgotten.
Children had vanished into shadows,
their giggles buried
beneath the rubble of broken walls.
The bride’s bangles were still on the shelf,
never worn, never blessed.
The garlands had dried
in the corner of a room
that would never know music again.
Somewhere, a child who used to be
nurtured with care and comfort
now held a family together,
his palms too small
for the weight of hunger,
for the questions he dared not ask.
Grief settled in every corner
like dust that would never lift.
Only the silence spoke,
and it said everything–
of lives severed mid-sentence,
of lullabies left unfinished,
of fathers who never came back,
and mothers who never got to say goodbye.
Yes, soldiers marched,
and some returned,
medals pinned to torn uniforms.
But behind them were armies unseen:
the weeping, the waiting,
the ones who cooked meals for ghosts,
who swept ashes off cradles,
who fought without weapons
in wars that never made the news.
The front lines moved on.
But in some homes
the war still breathes!!!
The War that Never Ended
