A whisper from these days :
I don’t know where you are now… whether the wind carried you to those green fields or if you’re still lingering in the urge to leave.
Let me speak of us—of these weary people. Of those who, after a brutal battle, polish their boots by night, preparing for another war that dawn will bring.
Let me speak of *honor*, my love—how its white gleam fades further into the gray of poverty.
We are all falling. Our bodies bruised, our souls wounded. No one can promise anyone a life of dignity or triumph anymore.
We are all in pain. Like you. You, who left years ago. When the darkness grew thicker, enemies multiplied, and the songs of free birds faded, you chose to vanish. You chose to flee to your dreamland, where no foe could stain your radiant soul.
Tell me—did you find it?
Is there a place where bread is not traded for dignity? Where one can break free from chains of necessity and swallow a bite untainted by blood? 2 replies
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