Iâve been waiting for 50 days,
Yet I wrote with my favourite pen.
Maybe our love was just a phase,
But Iâd appreciate a reply every now and then.
Sent to the war in the finest uniform,
Made it myself with working hands.
Your young son was never born,
Died from infection of swollen glands.
Every frost and nightfall pops up like toast,
Clocks are counting endless hours.
Iâm still waiting for the m...
