Nostalgia.

In the times of bloodshed and fear, what am I?

I say my eyes are dry, my legs are strong, and that I’m always looking towards the horizon.

But that can’t be true.

I see calloused children and sandbag adults and it scares me

Because I am neither.

I’m roaming and I’m speaking but no words are coming out.

No words that are of any importance.

I can feel the future on my face like the stinging wind of summer

And it burns.

The pain is good, the pain is natural, but I’m too cold for it.

I’m moving forward on the basis of what I know.

But, you see,

I know nothing.

The air settles around those drinking from dirty cups and those drinking from enemies

But I can’t see the difference.

And people continue to cry and die and celebrate and I…

I am ready.