The Last Flower

In ruins of a city, broken and bleak,
A soldier wanders with spirits meek.
Amidst the rubble, a sight so rare,
A solitary flower, tender and fair.

With weary hands, he reaches down,
To pluck this treasure from forsaken ground.
In a world of chaos, this bloom persists,
A fragile hope in desolate midst.

So the soldier holds this flower tight,
A symbol of courage in darkest night.
With each petal’s whisper, a vow he’ll keep,
To nurture hope in a world so steep.

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