War is not born in the market stalls,
where hands shake over ripe bananas
and borrowed change.
It is not whispered between neighbors
hanging laundry in the wind.

It is not the dream of the mother
rocking her child to sleep
on a mat woven from yesterday’s peace.

War is born in polished rooms,
where suits sit on swivel chairs,
swapping lives like poker chips
over coffee no one spills.

It is conjured by men
with maps and microphones,
who will never duck when the sky breaks open,
who will never cradle a body and ask why it had to end like this.

They do not bleed.
We do.

Children become numbers.
Villages become ash.
And somewhere, a screen lights up
with the word “necessary.”

But ask the boy clutching his sister
beneath the rubble—
what was necessary?

Ask the girl who writes poems
with broken pencils and no country.

They never asked for this.

They just wanted to grow.
To dance.
To argue about silly things.
To live.

But war—
war is never about them.
It’s about power
wrapped in patriotism,
and pride sharpened like bayonets.

So no,
war isn’t created by citizens.
It’s served to them cold,
by hands that never touch the aftermath.