The remains

of this land

do not tell

the complete story.

The wounded, the bodies,

dispersed and buried here.

Can we call this

the museum -

of broken promises,

of broken dreams?

Of the last kisses,

Of the last good byes?

The bloodbath

that’s hidden underneath,

then stitched carefully,

and covered

with the layers of the sand

now under our feet.

Walk gingerly,

on the land mine

of the broken hopes,

of the broken hearts,

of the lost kids,

of the lovers.

Some hearts

still eager to beat,

Some kids

still eager to hold fingers,

Some wounded

still eager to be healed.

So be careful

as you walk

through the ruins

Some spirits

still follow

as the under current.

The sand,

the dust winds,

the horizon,

the red sunset,

of these ruins,

do not tell

the complete story.

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