By the road, it's found,
Neither stolen nor spoilt,
Young and fresh,
Green and strong.
Peace at sight,
A smile on every face.
Passing by, the air blooms,
I wonder, one heart opened,
Was it a nap or stolen peace?
Which one is truly chosen?

There, where death tainted the sea
and the walls hid the dawn.
There, where the wind ceased to sing
and the sirens took the place of birds,
we heard nothing.
But she is alive.
There, where freedom wrestles with darkness
and flesh turned into storm.
There, where man denied man
and genocide became a profitable venture,
we still heard nothing.
Our yard—
blood.
Our heart—
a fence.
And a cloud of submission
washing away our shame.
But she is alive—she always will be.
Her pulse will echo
wherever there is resistance.

Hatred with violence
And the fear within.
Freedom from distress,
Tranquility lingering.

Only fairness,
A state of harmony.
Presence of justice -
A true symphony.

Peace is not a treaty.
It's the truth.

Peace, in a bed
in Amsterdam, kneeling
or with clenched fists

eternally awaited, preserved
in hearts and thoughts
about people who behave
differently than you wish
people who have to take care

of their well-being and can
only dream their visions
cannot realise these even
with combined efforts
The world is too big for that

Close by you can smell the wind
and go along with the seasons
Close by you can, within
the limits of your needs
safely open up to another

How I love rainy days,
The sweet fragrance of petrichor fills the air-
So mere, yet satisfying.

Under the blankets,
The rain hums its soft lullaby,
And I sink into the tightest sleep.

Rain pulls me into thoughts
Drifting between nostalgia and what-ifs
While silence quietly dominates.

a war rages on inside my brain
two voices dominate the rest,
as one call for more guns and bombs
it's only aim to cause damage,
the other whispers for peace
with a soft voice thats not fit for combat,
all it can do is silently gain support
of innocent onlookers

inside your head do fatalities also rise
at the hands of bullets that strangle soft voices,
does your heart wish for peace
wailing against the sound of warfare

I look deep into your eyes
for any clues for the victor,
wondering if my words did help
or get drowned out by screams

It’s strange
how people bring flowers
to your funeral,
but never when you’re alive.

And no—
I’m not talking about the flowers,
or death.