The bombs fall like punctuation marks—
cutting sentences short.
Schools bleed out their lessons,
whiteboards stained
with the math of madness.

The hospital walls sag,
buckling under the weight
of too many bodies,
too much blood for
shoes to float on.

The earth smells like death,
like blood and burnt paper—
everything that was once whole,
scattered across the streets.

The medics, with bare hands,
search for survivors in the ruins…
they find none,
just blood stained on walls,
half-finished lives.

There is no space left for grief,
no room to mourn when the dead loop,
the sky filled with their cries
as if they’re asking—
But no,
there are no questions here.
Just this loud silence,
thick as smoke,
filling the lungs of those who try to heal.

They bomb the hospitals,
and say nothing happened.
They bomb the schools,
and call it victory.
Every breathing heart feels heavy now,
pressed down with the weight
of too many lies
causing too much death.

But here…
there is no bandage
for a shot heart.
No stitch to seal
the gaping wounds.
Just the steady hum of jets,
and trust me—
even the earth knows
there’s no peace left here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash