Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Updated: Aug 5

Wars are never won, they are only waged.


Autumn leaves, with colours resembling the sun, cascade down the horizon. It’s beautiful. Yet ashes and blood cover the earth. A bitter wind, mourning for the dead, drifts along the hillside, as it lay quiet, for it was now a graveyard of unburied crimes, but there is no one around to listen. Death surrounds the village; the battlefield, baptised in blood and the bitter perfume of corpses, disembodied voices of souls that once walked the same streets now seem to haunt them. Shadows rise and fall, like the sun, at dusk and dawn. The village is a fading memory of what was.


They say, “hell is empty and all the devils are here,” it is true, as far as the eye can see, destruction litters the roads. Eerily quiet. Slaughter of our finest at the devil's command.


Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.


Piece by piece. The village is a skeleton, stripped of its flesh long ago by foreign soldiers that swarmed the place, stopping at nothing to tear everything apart. Setting everything on fire, but no one came to quench the flames.


Crumbled, chipped, forgotten.


What is left stands in spite of itself, defying gravity in its precarious way, unwilling to let go of its delicate hold on life. Doors hang on the few threads of their hinges and groan as if in pain at every sway. Red. Shattered. Glass from broken windows glitters the roads like stars in the twinkling night sky. Bullets and bombs. They said the first war was the war to end all wars. Nonsense. The remnants of the once happy village lay scattered in the deserted streets, that still wage war on themselves.


Devoid of warmth. History repeated in every inch of the blood that was spilt. Red, black, rotten. Atrocities against humankind. Committed by humankind. Men, women, and children all alike.


Tears have dried but the pain still drowns the living. They say, “the monsters that rise from the dead are nothing compared to the ones we carry in our hearts.”


An assortment of red and grey mist thrown up from the sheer amount of blood and smoke that was spilt makes the air hazy. Mist and blue sky, combining, merging, joining until the sky too, reflects a grotesque picture of hell.


Swirling clouds like spilled ink in water.


The smell of rain emanates the air, a storm on the verge of unleashing its wrath. Thick blackened clouds are dragged down by the heavy rain that they hold in their delicate frames. Clouds that struggle to withstand the burden, soon give in and rain pours down, roaring, weeping for its dead. The sky rages as if to pound countless tears at the feet of man; emptiness disrupted by the loud formidable boom of thunder, as icy rain pierces the wet ground.


It beats and breaks, it loves and aches for the ones that were lost.


Constantly.


Consistently.


Continually.


Trying to wash away the stains. A melody played with raindrops. They say that “even the earth has music for those who listen.”


Rain obliterates the memories; maybe trying to give a new chance, a fresh start, a new life. Maybe teaching us to learn to shelter through the storms, to seek refuge in the rage, yet embrace the gifts that can be discovered when it vanishes, that is when new chances find the chance to flourish, to make something good after its passing. To look for the rainbows after the rain. To move on.


To look at the sunset, bringing the promise of a new dawn, a new day. To learn from our mistakes.


But life is a roaming shadow, a pitiable actor. A desperate comedy. That ends with death. It is full of anger, noise, fury, happiness, and sadness. The good times and the bad ones.


A beautiful lie.


A depressing truth.


A nightmare dressed like a daydream.


Beyond the unknown and a picket white fence, a new grave...Still, it is not ours to take.

 

Eesha Rizwan - an obsessive reader, aesthetic addict (thanks to Pinterest), debater, and advocate. You can find me at @eesha.rizwan on Instagram.

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