Two decades passed, a world away,
I return to the village where children used to play,
Yet silence hangs where laughter thrived,
A shadowed place, where hope survived.
The road is rough, the skies are gray,
Once vibrant fields now dulled and frayed,
The whispers of war have touched this land,
And broken dreams lie where we used to stand.
The sycamore stands, a sentinel tall,
But its branches droop, as if to mourn all,
Once filled with the echoes of joyous delight,
Now carries the weight of a long, bitter fight.
The schoolhouse, once a beacon of light,
Now bears the scars of a long, bitter night,
Windows shattered, its laughter turned cold,
Stories untold in the silence unfold.
The river's bend, where we'd float on dreams,
Now flows with the echoes of silent screams,
The current's cruel, the banks erode,
Yet memories linger along this road.
In the village square, a ghostly refrain,
The market stalls whisper of loss and pain,
The baker's bread, once warm and bright,
Now symbolizes hunger, shadows of night.
I see familiar faces, etched in despair,
Where joy once danced, now lives the bare,
Yet in their eyes, a flicker remains,
A glimmer of strength amidst the stains.
We gather 'round, the few who survived,
In shared silence, we feel the past alive,
For in the heart of this wounded place,
Resilience blooms, though time leaves a trace.
Though war has scarred, it cannot erase,
The bond we hold, the love we embrace,
With each whispered story, a flame ignites,
Rekindling hope in the darkest of nights.
As twilight descends on this sacred ground,
I feel the pulse of the village resound,
For though the past bears heavy tolls,
Together we'll rise, and heal our souls.
