They didn’t recognise me as I tread one heavy foot after the other on the rubble now called history. Their eyes were wide open but could not see. But their ears—their ears seemed eager now; fragile but attentive. So I called out their names desperate for any sign of life. I called out with the small drops of hope I had left, that they might listen. But oh did my echo resound in the cold air left vacant in the vacuum. Oh did my bones chill at the sound of my sound bouncing through the nothingness and back to me. Vacant of love is the cold scene now—of warmth, of humanity—vacant of all I wished to offer. On the left and on the right I saw their bones broken in the rubble. One on top of the other they rested dormant where they could have amounted to more. But rest, do they? Or do they lay breathlessly, cut off mid-sentence? Rest, do they? Or do their souls wail in regret with notes silenced and unheard? I tread one foot after the other, heavier now, through the rubble. I made my way through the hopelessness, the defeat, and the full stop. And it was there that I fathomed the truth that pierces me: that I have expired; that I can do nothing now but drag these peaceful feet, ghost-like, on done death. Still, if I could, I’d tell them that their swords killed more than their bodies. I would whisper in each of their ears that their arrogance blinded more than their lifeless eyes. And still, if I could, I would scream at the top of my panting lungs, that their ruthless war has killed me.