From a distance, the old man sits with cloudy eyes.
His house is burning / the soldiers are marching.
His heart is still, a radio to his ears.
An old tune comes up, he is closing his eyes
Returning to the times when he sung.
When he swirled with the wind as a boy.
As one bidding dreams come.
The sirens are wailing at a distance
beckoning a certain brood
An air of warning.
Now, he is standing, falling.
Holding his chest to a symphony of death.
His heart is wandering in the dust too, his breath failing.
In the morn of yesterday, he was a man laughing with children.
That pulled his legs and ears.
Breathing the spices in the air, playing in bed.
Staring at the eyes of youth, whispering promises again.
Today he is a picture of loss, the shadow of fights.
When the bombs came down, when the raids reigned.
Snatching his breath,
It’s been years, his radio still hisses with life
We fight, must we?
We war, should we?
The soldiers boots make that sound.
But he is in the dust now, a memory and
“Citizens of our dear Nation, don’t lose hope”.
Blah blah blah