Small hands and faces dissolve into pixels,
then click,
close the tab before
your coffee grows cold on marble benches.

The clock of hunger counts:
minutes between breath and stillness,
days between medicine and mass graves,
seconds to change the channel
to grotesque celebrities
to sunny weather reports
to anything but absence.

The futures are deleted:
the surgeon will never steady her scalpel,
the poet’s brave words will never crack complacency
the teacher will never build bridges.

We sit in the luxury chair of distance
while children become discarded footnotes
to dinner conversation.

But their silence shouts still about
these stolen tomorrows,
these murdered possibilities,
this genocide of potential
that we permit with our practiced blindness.

The children die.
The truth unquestioned.
The politics debated.
What is the price of intervention?
Let us drink wine more costly
than redemption.

And we as the
architects of indifference,
the engineers of convenience,
the artists of compliance,
perfect the art of looking away.

 

25/5/2025