A child's cry splits the midnight air,
shattered glass, the scent of despair.
The streets once humming with songs and trade
now echo with the ghosts war has made.

The sky is bruised, blackened with flame,
a mother wails, calls out a name.
But silence swallows, dust and stone,
a city turned to blood and bone.

Where laughter danced in alleyways,
now sorrow clings to broken days.
Olive trees, once kissed by light,
stand charred and twisted in the night.

A father kneels by what remains,
hands trembling, whispering names.
His house is gone, his hands hold air,
his heart beats on, though nothing's there.

The sea still sways, the tide still turns,
though every home in darkness burns.
The stars look down, they do not weep,
while children lie in dreamless sleep.

A schoolyard once alive with play
now pools with tears at break of day.
The market stalls, the sacred ground,
all crumbled now, no voices sound.

Yet even here, amid the ash,
hope still flickers, whispers past.
A mother lifts her weary hand,
plants a seed in stolen land.

For one day, when the guns are gone,
when war's dark shadow meets the dawn.
This earth will bloom, this land will rise,
and peace will shine in children's eyes.