In Kyiv’s subway shelter, a girl folds
bullet casings into cranes—wings etched
with Psalms hummed as shells tarnish sunsets to brass.

On Donetsk’s front, soldiers pluck petals
to pad boots where redemption sprouts
from blistered roots.

Beneath Gaza’s shattered solar grids,
ants weave fuse-wire nests between Quran
and rifle text—six-legged imams reconciling steel.

An Israeli ****** texts his Palestinian pen pal:
Your olive grove grew through my scope last night.
They meme Moses and Mohamed vaping
under the Red Sea’s algorithmic tide.

This is why laundry dances on Mariupol’s balconies—
why tank crews plant sunflowers in tread marks,
why Bedouin teens stream TikTok psalms
where Hagar’s tears salted dunes.

But lick Crimean wounds, let Gaza’s dust
baptize your lens, love the enemy’s laugh—

to hear sparrows in AK barrels chant Salaam
in C minor, eggs cracking into maps
where mines burst figs even Judas craves.

it doesn't sound as terrifying
if you split it into
a million deaths,
a million lives, lost individually.
we're wasting our humanity
on empty background noise.
we're forced to lock our gates,
avert our eyes,
pay mortgage with our souls.
it doesn't seem quite as finite
if you just take your pills
and track your progress,
while they wash all the blood
off of the hands
that hold our future hostage.
a million deaths,
a million possibilities,
surrendered individually.

In the sooth silent valley of ours,
Stood the well dressed souls,
In bizarre air of Pahalgam.

How can some demon, a ghost
Too inhuman to be born,
With a roar invade their elegant home,
And a line of splitted love they formed,
A beast switch air with his scorn,
All the smiles fades,
only to  leave eric air to mourn.

How inhuman of them to decide
And then to divide ,
On bases of what?
"so called, fantasised, man-made tribes?"

A beast who knows no soul,
Not even the flesh he himself worn,
How can he know a sacred script
He claims to be its magus divine,
But How can it even partalize?

Sindoor they stabbed, out of rage,
For her an ordeal she can never erase.
So, Did they not stab the honour?
Drowned the humanity in blood's corner?

Shrill cries that wound the stone,
Where justice whispers and fail to roar,
In the bleek silence they upheld the war,
The wounds won't dry ,
They'll scar across every door.


The Lass, a लाश right now,
Sinner of her, smiled somehow,
And god said,"get up Devi, strengthen your armour, face the devil and set them on fire".
And the goddess,
Who resides in sky with the wisdom,
Burnt down all nine of beast's sites.
And so the justice somehow survived.

-Lahar

...gentle breezes
rung the wind chimes
of two hearts
pulsing
for freedom
chorused ecstacy
tickled
the goosepimples
of breathy lovers
caressing
their love-slick bodies
oil
of romance
dripped
sizzling
'pon the ground
of their windswept haven
their sighs
matched the melody
the hollow sighs
of our earth's lungs
for they
were the energy
sustaining
love
and giving atmosphere
to worlds
untold...

Sit close
Listen with your soul
not just your ears
No book gets it right

You ask me,
Were you one of the good ones?
There are no good ones
Only those who bled slower

They’ll call it justice
A stand
A reckoning
A cleansing
Our last shot at salvation

They’ll dress it in slogans,
wrap it in flags
They’ll give us names
Patriots, Rebels,
Loyalists, Traitors
But all of them fall apart
when the guns begin to sing

Your uncle...
the one you never met...
he looked at me
eyes wide, afraid
But I didn’t care
He wore the wrong color
And that was that

Remember your grandfather
remember these hands,
how they shook,
how they never stopped shaking.

Don’t let them hand you a weapon
and call it purpose
Don’t swallow lies
and call it reason

There is nothing civil
about a civil war
Nothing brave
in killing your own
No valor
in tearing your country in two

If I must choose,
I choose war—
Right hand against left,
Infants against beasts—
If every cause is just.

by (The Soul-Warrior)

I think I was a warrior once—
not of war, but of wounds.
My blade wasn't sharp with steel,
but soaked in silence,
forged from the fire of forgiveness.

I see him—
my past self,
kneeling in the ruins of choices,
bloodied not from battle,
but from bending.

My hand rises—
not in anger,
but to end the echo of suffering.
A mercy...
to silence the screams he swallowed.

But he smiles.
That broken boy with fire in his eyes.
He places his hand on my shoulder and says,
"Congratulations..."

"You endured."

"You didn’t fall. You didn’t give up."
"You wore the spikes like a crown,
bled wisdom from your wounds,
and now—
you are wiser than me."

And in that moment,
the blade in my hand dissolved,
and all that was left...
was peace.

Two minutes, we sacrifice.
The value of a human life.
Not to work two minutes harder,
or push ourselves 2 minutes further.

Not enough to contemplate
the pain and fear, the spite and hate.
Not 2 minutes to reparate,
our broken world, our shattered people.
The ones we left, who've grown so feeble.

We give 2 minutes for those who died.
Who died in wars so many times.
War and again, over and over,
and louder, the silence,
and longer, the violence,
so dilute in its gunfire and sirens.

Silence, 2 minutes, for those who died.
Yet silence eternal, for those deprived,
of human rights, and chance to live,
If only 2 minutes were all we'd give.