Postcards

I

Under the shadow of the pouring Sun

Where the clouds whisper to thunder

And the red pint of stamps fly

Against the wind to the land of war

And loaded guns,

There lies an empty house

In the corner of the town

Where postcards are the only guest.

The guns soak the red and shoot

Paper planes carrying stories of demise,

Making this empty house emptier

While a hollow sunken soul lives in memories

Waiting for its bones to be debris

And eyes to dim forever.

Bricks don’t make houses. People do.

But under the shadow of the pouring Sun,

This house stands still with broken windows,

Dilapidated stairs, and firm memories

While no one lives to recall the giggles

Which once erected this monument.

II

To die, we must live even if

Our first breath is our last.

Soon, the house would be no more

And a new building with newer faces

Would bury those memories once and for all.

The green grass would grow over the staircase

And the greenest one would spring out of

The little drawer where your postcards lie

Under Earth’s linen while Earth remains naked

For men to devour.

Postcards which you wrote drenched in

Sweat and someone’s blood-

Blood which ended written postcards elsewhere

And hollow houses were created elsewhere-

A new gulag erects itself.

Somewhere far away from our greenery

Lies another set of broken memories

With no one to recall under the pouring Sun.

Somewhere far away from our graves

Lie another set of postcards

Unused and Forgotten.