She plucks the flower from the ash:
delicate, so very beautiful.
When is the last time she has seen something so innocent?
How long has it been?
She cradles the blossom in her hands
As if it may disappear like her
Last shred of hope so long ago.
She can no longer hear the wind,
Feel the sun rays on her cheek.
How many times has she tasted blood,
Her own or the one’s she loved?
Cursed with visions of war and pain,
But she holds tight to her one small victory.
And as it lives and breaths,
So will she.