The sirens wail through shattered walls,
Where blackened birds on power lines call.
A child draws tanks with crayon hands,
And learns of death through broken lands.
The sky—a screen of ash and steel—
Now drones above with lifeless zeal.
No trumpet sounds, no sabres clash—
Just data points and nightly flash.
The olive trees are razed again,
Their roots upturned by iron men.
A father lifts his only son,
Half-buried ‘neath the smoking sun.
No ballads from the west arise,
Just headlines bent and bloodless lies.
A ceasefire may—a deal might hold,
But oil is warm, and peace is cold.
In air-conditioned rooms afar,
They speak of “order,” chart the scar,
But never hear the widow’s scream,
Or see the twitch within her dream.
They draft their laws in English tongue,
While Arabic prayers burn the lung.
The statesmen nod, the markets climb,
And Gaza mourns in real-time crime.
Where once the dove had sought to soar,
Now satellites patrol the war.
The prayers from mosques, the church-bell’s plea,
Are muffled by democracy—
Not that which lifts, but that which breaks,
That builds in fear and takes and takes.
And still the pundits spin the thread,
While every hour, more names are read.
An infant sleeps in mother’s arms—
The roof is gone, exposed to harms.
The stars peer down, indifferent, cold,
Like cameras bought and stories sold.
In screens aglow from east to west,
We scroll past death with heart at rest.
The algorithm keeps us blind,
While tanks rewrite what’s left behind.
O world of glass and policy,
What use are words if none are free?
If silence marks the global stage,
And truth is drowned by profit's rage?
Then let this be a ghost’s lament—
A voice for those whose breath was spent.
Though hope lies buried in the sand,
It rises still—by human hand.
No myth remains to shield the sin,
No rime can cleanse the blood within.
Yet poets, too, must stand and write,
While Gaza weeps into the night.