Snow drops onto the cold winter English homes, spraying like the waterhose in the years before, giving so much just like the food that we use to have, big chunks of ice just like the families, cold just as our brothers and fathers are charging through, hail just as hard as a bullet going through dad's legs. When guns strikes so does my life, my brother has gone dad’s just a body, not any limbs not any feeling. I have noticed that war is the worst time. All Mama and my sisters can do is hide in the little bunker fighting for survival.
By Greta
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