The news declares
our nation’s foes,
Maps cut the earth
where red lines grow.
Borders drawn
with stubborn ink
as if the sky itself
could break and shrink.
Yet morning comes
as mornings do,
soft light falling
fresh and new.
But yesterday
still clouds the air
like stubborn smoke
that lingers there.
I wake from dreams
of sirens crying,
cities trembling,
rockets flying.
In Kyiv
morning breaks in fear,
sirens singing sharp and clear.
In Gaza
dust on shattered stone
where children once
had freely grown.
In Tehran
a father scans the flame
where missiles sign
their fleeting name.
Yet in my kitchen
life moves slow,
coffee warming
its quiet glow.
The dosa sings
upon the pan,
a small and ordinary plan.
Strange how the world
can split this way,
war in one corner,
breakfast on another day.
I wonder then
How thin the seam
between the harsh truth
and a hopeful dream.
Between yesterday
and what may start,
between two nations
and one human heart.
Then suddenly
My phone gives light,
a message crossing
distance and night.
A friend whose flag
stands far from mine,
across those careful
border lines.
“Are you safe?”
His message reads.
So small a phrase,
Yet all one needs.
Strange how friendship
crosses through
the lines that war
insists that they are true.
We talk of the weather,
books, and tea,
small human things
that let us be.
And for a moment
The world grows small,
smaller than hatred,
smaller than walls.
Perhaps peace begins
this quiet way,
not in speeches
leaders say,
not in rooms
of power and might,
but in gentle words
sent through the night.
If poetry can travel
where armies fail,
If words can cross
each guarded trail,
Then maybe someday
children will wake
in Gaza,
Kyiv,
Tehran,
Tel Aviv,
Moscow.
to skies unbroken
overhead,
where the loudest sound
The world will know
Is laughter rising
soft and slow.
And friendship
stronger than any line
drawn by fear
or design.
By: Rahul Vishwakarma
