Beneath the dawn of a summer sky,
Where children laughed and kites would fly,
A sudden flash, a blinding light,
Turned day to dark, and wrong from right.

In Hiroshima's gentle fold,
The air grew hot, the silence cold.
A fire fell from heaven’s gate,
And stitched the thread of human fate.

Steel and flame consumed the air,
As shadows burned to walls laid bare.
The rivers wept, the mountains sighed,
And countless dreams in silence died.

Then Nagasaki met the same,
Another spark, another flame.
The morning bloomed with death again—
A flower forged in endless pain.

But from the ash and twisted steel,
The world was forced at last to feel—
Not just the might that man could wield,
But hearts that broke and wounds unhealed.

So hear the whispers of the land,
The ghosts that reach with outstretched hand.
"Let not our fate be born anew,
In flames that fall from skies so blue."

May peace not be a fragile thread,
Stitched only when too much is dead.
But rather grown in every heart—
A vow that never shall depart.