They tell us that life is precious, yet,
I’ve watched it scattered like ink on forgotten pages.
Faces fade into the silence of wars, laughter is bartered for grief, and love, once radiant,
Becomes the toll demanded by time.
What is beauty,
If not the cruel reminder that we dwell in the ruins raised by sacrifice?
I have seen men surrender to shadows that could not name, bearing guilt that lingers longer than breath.
And yet, amid the wreckage, existence dares to sing – within the trembling of a hand that still reaches,
The fleeting moment when the broken believe themselves whole.
Strange, is it not?
That even in sorrow’s reign, life pulls us forward, whispering that there is more—
More than the ashes, more than the blood we left behind.
For in the mingling of sorrow and sacrifice, existence proves itself as the most unyielding truth.
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