Find My Broken Heart

Yesterday, I was writing poems about small things— how small beings dwell, how they endure, the quiet life we don't notice. A spider spinning a web in a corner. A bird singing at dawn. They teach us to slow down. To enjoy the little things. To survive softly. But today— I woke up to war. I don’t know who to notice first. The children in Gaza, who are so alone. A child without a mother. A mother without a daughter. A daughter without a brother. A daughter who was raped. A son who was killed. A father who was shot. A mother— who died of a broken heart. How empty must the streets feel when children don’t laugh anymore? How heavy is hunger when there’s no one left to feed you, and nothing left to eat? In a world drowning in excess, where we don’t eat the same meal twice because we’re bored— children are born, and die, hungry. Doesn’t it break your heart, too? Or did you leave your empty heart in the place you still call home?