A white dove, 

A crimson sky— 

Leaders and rulers embrace, 

But...!

Somewhere far away... 

A mother presses her forehead 

Against the cold marble slab of a memorial, 

Standing there like a question. 

And elsewhere, 

Last spring’s bride 

Now counts the omens at the door, 

Tying knots in the corners of her scarf, 

Whispering prayers— 

٭”If only this door, too, could be a miracle...”٭  

She runs to the knock, 

Faster than the wind, 

Beyond fear itself— 

Only to find 

Nothing but

His cloths, 

Wrapped in flags, 

Dusted in gunpowder. 

What do we know of whose politics these are? 

But... 

We are witness

to

Who paid the price.