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The sky fell first,
crumbling like a glass bowl in a giant’s hand

Dust swallowed our names.

I became the boy without a voice,

the boy, carrying ashes instead of toys.

I remember the river, how it once sang.

Now it carries whispers of those who won’t return.

Mother said rivers heal,

but this one drowns my heart in silence.

My sister’s laughter was once the air we breathed.

Now, the empty chair screams louder than bombs.

I still set a plate for her,

though my hands tremble, 

grief is a hunger that never leaves.

The women walk like shadows,

their eyes too deep to see the bottom.

They carry more than their weight,

but grief is light,

it lives in your chest.

My friends are ghosts,

their voices lost in the smoke.

We used to race barefoot,

now we limp in dreams,

and hope feels like a distant star.

But even in the dark,

there’s a flicker—a spark,

hidden beneath the rubble.

I hold it close,

and I wait,

for it to grow into light again.