NightingaleSea

O, Watcher of the Wasting Limb,

You who see the spirit dim,
Who bears the hollow, haunted gaze
Of Gaza’s long and smokeless days.
You who count each silent tear
Within the grip of grinding fear,
Where flesh, in hunger’s quiet plea,
Begins to feast on memory.
Where a mother’s prayer becomes a scream
For just one sip from a poisoned stream.

And you, O World, with eyes turned cold—

Do you not hear the stories told?
The cries of children in the dust,
The shattered ground, the broken trust?
Do you not see the ledger kept—
Of laws betrayed, of oaths unwept?
The cruel arithmetic of might
That buries cities in the night,
And starves a future, plate by plate,
To fix a generation’s fate?
Oh, trade your comfort for their cries,
And see with unaverted eyes.

For peace is not a word we speak

To hearts that tremble, thin and weak.
It cannot bloom from ink and maps
While hunger grips with ghostly claps.
It does not rise from marble halls
While mothers wail in crumbling walls.
No treaty, flag, or noble name
Can soothe a child consumed by flame.
First, let there be bread—soft, warm, and near,
To hush the ache, to quiet fear.
Only with food and fire restored
Can peace knock gently at the door.

And say not that this hope is vain—

A dream dissolved in endless rain.
Peace is not a ghost, a star too far—
It lives wherever brave hearts are.
It is a choice, a human vow,
A trembling “yes” spoken now.
It is the will to not give in,
To lift, rebuild, begin again.
To choose the harder, holier way—
To plant, not burn; to feed, not slay.

And say not that this hope is vain—

A dream dissolved in endless rain.
Peace is not a ghost, a star too far—
It lives wherever brave hearts are.
It is a choice, a human vow,
A trembling “yes” spoken now.
It is the will to not give in,
To lift, rebuild, begin again.
To choose the harder, holier way—
To plant, not burn; to feed, not slay.

So let the silos of the earth

Pour out their grain, restore new birth.
Let flags of aid be first to rise
Above the smoke, against the skies.
Let every nation hear the call
To lift the starving, cradle all.
For in the dignity of a meal,
The wound of hatred starts to heal.
Let peace begin—a fragile shoot—
In soil made rich by mercy’s root.
Let it begin with us, today.