In the rubble of a nameless street,
a girl ties her hair with wire
and counts the syllables
of silence between missiles.
She remembers a house —
not the shape of its walls,
but the smell of her mother’s bread,
and the way shadows leaned gently
at sunset.
Each night, her father recites
verses the world forgot,
as if prayer could rebuild
a roof.
A boy plants a paper flag
in the sand,
not to claim the land,
but to say:
I was here. I mattered.
They call this a battlefield.
But it is a classroom
where dust is the chalk,
and grief teaches the alphabet
of survival.
Somewhere, across oceans,
a leader signs his name
on a shipment of thunder,
and they call it
defense.
But under the scorched fig tree,
a widow hums her husband’s name
into the roots,
so he will rise again
as blossom.
This is not the end.
Hope does not knock.
It grows —
slow, stubborn,
uninvited —
in the cracks
of everything.
Where the olive tree waits,
so does she.
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