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Hands in pockets, head full of thoughts, walks slowly through streets, looks for a sweet voice – “I am here… son.”
House silent, room left without breath, bed still has your scent, but you are not there!
“Where can I find them?” – he asks himself, and eyes fill with tears, “Are you far, hidden somewhere? Are you also looking for me today!?”
War took mother’s voice, father’s voice was taken by wind, but a child will not surrender, when heart still waits at the door.
With hands in pockets he squeezes an old photograph folded at corner. Takes it out and kisses with longing, Don’t forget me, I love you dearly…
Maybe one day in dream, will see them both, mother will hug him tightly, father will tell him; “I am with you.”
Until then he will walk with hands in pockets, without voice, searching through world… Two people he loved more than anything.
Because children can grow without parents, but longing never grows up, love for parents does not die in war, nor with time nor in grave!

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