War drums beat steady through the passages of power,
where generals trace maps with red-tipped fingers,
marking territories, strategising, counting costs in lives,
but do they sleep soundly tonight with what they bare?

The algorithms of war change flesh into statistics,
and each casualty report become a bureaucratic
whisper that echoes through marble halls where peace
is mere rhetoric in the game of who will win or not.

Yet in the space between bombardment and blame,
mothers stand at borders carrying only bloodied hope,
their footsteps pressing new treaties on dusty roads
while diplomats debate the syntax of supposed ceasefires.

What if the language of resolution and peace began
not with the thunder roll of righteousness and reprisal,
but with the simplicity of sitting with the time to listen,
where each silence and new thought was a small revolution?

 

22/6/2025