She Sings of War

The broken brick under our feet will remember our weight,
The dust remains in the throat, like someone's forgotten address.
And we don’t speak in words - they have been erased a long time ago,
we breathe through the cracks of the walls where there once was a window.
And the city swallows the steps, leaving no traces,
he teaches to be silent carefully instead of unnecessary words.
And every entrance is an entrance to the same fear,
where the current does not turn on the lights, but simply hangs in the wires.
You're asking me to go to a silent movie
to where no one will answer, where everything has already been decided.
Where time doesn't stretch, it falls right on us,
and we've seen each plot twist hundreds of times.
And we remain standing between “should” and “didn’t have time”,
where conscience becomes quieter than someone's execution.
And if there is still at least a hint of spring in your chest -
don't touch her...
it's not about us...
it's about war.
And all that's left is to hold on to the edge of the void,
as if there were at least some of us behind her.
But the dust settles on the skin like a sentence passed,
and the city does not look at us - it has already endured everything, like a thief.
And if they ask us later who we were then -
say: we weren’t - we just walked through the years.
And in every answer it sounded not “to be”, but “to finish”
as if love is something that prevents you from loving...
And if there is still at least a hint of spring in your chest -
don't touch her...
it's not about us...
it's about war.