In the second year of war –
W is for wounds,
for whispers of warning in every corner,
for weary feet walking through ruins,
escaping death, heading toward the void.

We wonder,
Will peace ever return?
Will we ever exhale without fear?
What a cruel time we live in.
What a blind world watches on.
What kind of people are you?
Where is your humanity?
Let the children be happy.

Is this what you call justice?

We stand on the edge –
not of hope, but of collapse.
Perhaps, in another life,
there is a place untouched by fire,
where peace breathes freely.

But time has turned against us.
Wretchedness has been written into the lines of our lives,
like ink that cannot be erased.

A –
Ah,
Agony after agony,
Abandoned alleys,
Ashes across ancient avenues.

Anguished arms,
Aching, afraid,
Awaiting another airstrike,
Another alarm.

Angels absent,
Anger all around,
Answers always avoided.

Aren’t all alive
Allowed a chance?
Aren’t adolescents
Allowed amusement,
Aspirations,
A simple afternoon
Away from annihilation?

Amid all assaults,
Ablaze and alone,
A call arises –
“A ceasefire! A chance! Anew!”

R – the final letter of “war,”
may it mark the end of flames,
of death,
of shattered dreams and silenced children.

Runs into the unknown,
where the sky bleeds red,
and the land remembers.
We remember –
every soft moment once taken for granted:
the gentle morning light,
the sound of laughter at dusk.

We wish for just two minutes –
two minutes of life
without fear,
without war,
without the weight of a future that may never come.

Now,
the sun rises over a world drowning in sorrow,
its light touching nothing but tragedy.

Let this life be renewed –
not for power,
not for pride –
but for the children,
the elders,
and all who ask only for a quiet, simple joy.

This was written from a wound –
deep and raw –
by a displaced girl living in terror,
but still holding on to hope.
She searches,
she endures,
she prays and perseveres –
for Allah,
and for her beloved homeland.