Editor's Choice
(Image – Malvina Perova)
You grin through the bitter frown and talk about home, the taste of cherry buns your mother used to bake on Sunday mornings. I hold my tears back and say one day you’ll clasp her in your arms again. Even though I know, you know, the loss of blood is reaching lethal limits.
You’ll die, my bro, but you won’t die alone. Under shelling, yells, and rain of dirt, I’ll stay, I’ll pray and sing the silly song you loved the most before the war. In caring arms and talks about buns, you’ll go freely where all the heroes go.
You’ll die, my bro, but you won’t die alone. Under shelling, yells, and rain of dirt, I’ll stay, I’ll pray and sing the silly song you loved the most before the war. In caring arms and talks about buns, you’ll go freely where all the heroes go.
