Green was his favourite colour. It is the hue of plants and ripening grapes. The shade of emeralds and fresh mint. The colour of life, and it was the colour of his eyes.
But it is also the colour of poison and serpents. The hue of toxic gas and the war-torn grounds. Once, it symbolised their love; now the colour cloaks his grave.
She longed to speak to him once more, So she learnt the last language he had known, With morse code as her bridge to him, Nothing had been the same.
Every sound and movement whispered to her. Even the rain urged her to move on. Yet she remainded there, beside him, beneath their favourite tree, Only he lay 6 feet below.
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To Live is to Die
PoesieI find war a fascinating topic-so broad yet so focused, filled with so many emotions and endless stories to explore. Sadness has its own kind of beauty, and that's what I wanted to capture here. To Live is to Die is my way of remembering the lives s...
