peace, freedom, love—
the ones who keeps the city alive,
prevents harm,
their source of happiness.
the trees, humming birds, the day and night—
the ones they call music,
corrects the soul,
their reason to breathe.
children, education, family—
are what they come back for,
what, and whom who matters the most,
their place called home.
with every bullet fired out,
there lies the hope being lowered down.
with every air they inhale,
one's life is pulled out.
a second, a minute, an hour—
time is already running out.
the will to save the city;
will that still be possible?
"step to the right", hide, run—
"get to your positions!", fire, "get back!";
they are in a world,
where every mistake could be their last.
nothing more to do but to save the city,
and to save the people from dying.
no one knows when will it end,
they just fought, no matter what.
it must be dreadful,
to see someone who sought peace,
die infront of your naked eyes; because they already had to.
the family they have left,
the children they have saved,
the sound of songs they used to play,
they missed their home; but they have to stay.
the city everyone used to adore,
burned down, that even ashes didn't remain.
the city everyone used to call happy,
tore down, and are now dust from how concrete they used to be.
as they wondered until when they'll live,
or watch someone sacrifice their lives,
just to save the city,
and take it back from the hands of the unbeknownst.
they stood up,
they continued to fight,
and that single percent of the strength they gained,
came from the flag that made them.
and there lies the hope,
to hear the one they called music,
to establish peace, freedom, love;
and to come back to their place called home.
