December bandages my oozing wounds with frost
I lay awake in the trench to protect your deep slumber
It's filth dampen my clothes not my heart
As I write this, my heart wanders
My son perhaps longs for my warmth
My wife perhaps gets tired of cooking stories for him
Tell them, I live for them but I breathe for my motherland
The tricolour flying high washes every pain
Either I would let my tricolour fly high or return engulfed in its bosom
Tell my son if his father fails to make home,
He would return everytime the tricolour is held high.
Ask him to not lament but be proud,
To not shed a tear but keep his head high
For he had left as a father to be a son of his country
And soldiers don't die, they live in hearts.
"My love is enough for both of us", she often felt those words ring in her heart. She finally had understood that life wouldn't always follow her designs. That people are meant to leave but their memories won't. She often had wondered how someone could love her to such an extent when that person had always known that she wouldn't reciprocate those feelings. How could a person stand by her when she always acted as a fleeting shadow. She never had given hope for she knew the pain of dejection but he kept hoping like a hopeless vagabond. How she wished that he would some day hate her enough to let go. She devised ways to free him from this web, she acted cold, turned indifferent, did everything he detested and she finally saw some changes. It was a relief, he finally seemed to take hold of his life. She could see him grow responsible. He finally it seemed was learning to love himself. Phone calls died, meetings subsided, they become known strangers. All this while ...
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