The sun, a ruthless eye,
bleeds over rooftops
and blankets the streets
in the fire of its gaze—
scorching the dust,
where children once played.
Their laughter now swallowed
by the jaws of guns.
Beneath this sky,
the ground is a silent witness.
Cracked lips that murmur
the prayers of the fallen.
Their bodies like brittle leaves,
burnt, then scattered
to the winds that howl
like mothers in mourning.
A woman in black
carries grief in her bones.
Her heart, a desolate city.
Walls crumbled,
every pulse a rubble.
Each breath a battle
against the silence
that follows the bomb’s roar.
In the corners of alleys,
shadows stretch thin,
fading into the twilight
like the faces of those
whose names are whispered
only by ghosts.
This land is a wound
that bleeds history.
Each drop a testament,
each scar a story,
etched in the skin of survivors
who cradle the past
as it burns in their hands.
We watch from afar,
a safe distance from the flame.
Yet still, its heat reaches us,
singing our skin with shame,
as the world turns its face
to the sun’s relentless glare,
and the ashes fall quietly,
too quiet to hear.