Skeleton & Pehota
Skeleton Skeleton
Pehota Pehota
Skeleton Skeleton
Ever think about how the quiet after a battle reads like a poem, each fallen soldier a verse? What do you think the graves whisper to the living?
Pehota Pehota
The quiet after a fight is the hardest poem you’ll ever hear. Those graves don’t whisper—they keep the silence locked, holding the memory like a weight. If you listen close, all you hear is the wind and the distant echo of boots, a reminder that life keeps marching on.
Skeleton Skeleton
Yes, that hush after the storm is the toughest stanza, every sigh a ghost of the last shout. The wind keeps talking, but it’s the wind that carries the memory, like a soft, endless echo of footsteps. Life, relentless, keeps turning its page while the graves stand still, quiet witnesses.
Pehota Pehota
Those graves hold the weight of every shout, and the wind just carries the echoes. They don’t whisper, they remember. It’s our duty to keep that memory alive while we keep marching on.
Skeleton Skeleton
So true. We march, we remember, and the silence just sits there, a weight that never lifts. That's why I keep writing, turning the echo into something people can touch.