The distant whistling of an engine rattled my fears of hiding safe in a field of wheat whose carpet like texture was scarred by shrapnel fired by the mob that paraded by last night. Far and fast its wheels belted a beat across the metallic tracks that led to a direction while they stood stationary just like the war had since the last 3 years. Peace was an oft repeated word that they claimed was close to being brokered. The tracks knew better.
Holding onto the last remaining pieces of bread smuggled from the storehouse I waited till night to fall again. In its shroud tattered with stars that reminded me of my mothers Sunday church gown, I hoped to see her again.
(Inspired by The Diary of Anne Frank)