I don’t feel like naming this poem

We, who have decided to go on with living life or dying along the path.

We, who once walked on all fours to find nothing more than a sandwich and two pieces of ham.

We, who saw the wounded and had no way to ease the suffering other than platitudes, and love letters.

We, who have told and retold stories against the recurring stupidity of war heroes.

We, who gather in silence, by the sound of the evening, listening to echoes.

We, who hear.

We, hark, beckon, call.

We, learn, stumble, fall.

We, speak, are spoken to.

We, start again.

We, start again.

We start again.

 

We, who have decided to go on with living life or dying along the path.

We get up.

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