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Poem

Every forty-five minutes, thirty children vanish—
not into memory, but into blood and rubble.
The soil of Gaza drinks the tears of mothers,
while those in power sip wine behind closed doors.

This is not war.
It is business—
and crime is its most profitable currency.

Why should we entrust justice to those who profit from injustice?
Why should we plead with architects of slaughter
to build peace?

Let it be known:
The empire that funds the weapons
shares the guilt of the one who pulls the trigger.
When America ships arms to Israel,
it signs the death certificate of a child
who never learned to speak.

To the global citizen,
now is not the time for hope alone—
now is the time for strategy.

Cut the veins through which the war machine feeds.
Let the dollar fall if it must,
for a new world can only rise from collapsed empires.
Cease all exports to the occupier.
Boycott every brand tainted with blood.
Let China hold its rare earths in silence—
deny them to all who oil the gears of genocide.

This is not a poem.
It is a blueprint.
This is not sorrow.
It is the sword of sorrow sharpened into action.

Palestine will not be freed by tears,
but by united will.
And the day the world says No more—
the bullets will silence,
and the children of Gaza will rise
not from graves,
but from schools,
from gardens,
from the sunlit dreams they have not yet known.

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