With the passage of time I stood still and waited to die.
We talk about life and think of all the happy, sweet memories associated with it,
When I recall the incidences, I see misery, I see pain.
Not just mine,Of everyone associated with me,
The struggle they went through.
I remember one story my grandpa once told me,
How hard it was for him to survive during the wars, To feed the family and To keep them safe and all.
How they hid from the armies, How they barely left their place.
How once he was captivated by the forces, and all he could think of was the milk he held for his new born.
How his newborn would have been crying of hunger, Probably dying of thirst.
There was no water, There was no power.
Everything was exorbitant, everything was somehow a barter.
He broke in tears and ran as fast as he could to reach to a safer place.
Alas he forget! There was no such thing as safe.
He managed to reach home to see his son dead.
Yet my grandpa still tells this story with utter embrace.
But I can imagine him living in despair
Every story, Mine or his, Hers or theirs.
They all have some sorrow they’ve lived
And died too within.
I remember all the sadness,
Trying to live the fullest, waiting to die one day
Maybe dying is the best form of living?