Panting, they sit atop a hill,
scarred, clutching on to the last remnants of life,
enemies just moments before.
Both collapse on the only grass that remains,
tears slide down their temples.
Regret and loss waft through the air.
They survey the fields across.
Stale smoke still pirourttes around rays of the morning sun,
Ash still crumbles and surrenders to the waiting wind.
The earth is exhausted,
but the birds are chirping again.
They lie there, splotches on scorched soil,
still looking up, each reaches out an arm.
As consciousness slithers out, their fingers interlock.
We don’t know when it will be fixed,
but the birds are chirping again.
I am a 31-year-old aspiring writer based in Cape Town. I work as a systems analyst and am also studying towards a BA in creative writing