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.
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.