No—
I did not fire the bullet.
You did.
Yet you etch My name
onto every stone that covers the dead.

You call Me cruel
as you pass the hollow-eyed child
on your way to peace summits
lined with polished speeches
and wine-soaked silence.

You ask,
Why is there suffering?
But I watch you
raise borders in the name of safety,
and bury your conscience
beneath layers of comfort and convenience.

Peace—
it is not the anthem you recite.
It is the hand you will not hold,
the bread you will not break,
the stranger you will not welcome.

You mourn the war
you helped ignite,
funded with your fear,
defended with your indifference.

I gave you hands
to cradle, not to conquer—
to stitch, not to sever—
to write love into the margins
of a divided world.

You say I am silent.
But I have spoken
in the mother’s cry,
in the child’s last breath,
in the stillness after the sirens fade.

The truth?
I never stopped speaking.
It is you
who stopped listening .