I look upon these empty streets

I wander

I see

No one escapes war

Except me.

Though I have not truly escaped.

The real thing I escaped is death.

No one leaves war unscathed.

I am simply the only one who left it at all.

I am alone in  these death-ridden streets

And I cry for my loss

I cry for others

I cry for wasted life

And I wonder

Why me?

Why have I been chosen for this burden?

Why have I not been killed?

Death seems a blessing now

But I cannot go, 

For then who is left to remember?