In search of peace in an age of war
I looked for peace
not in the temples,
but in the ruins behind them—
among bricks that still remembered
how silence sounds
before a missile arrives.
I searched for stillness
not in the slogans of diplomats,
but in the eyes of a child
cradling a doll
with one missing arm.
The world,
they say,
is preparing for peace—
but they build it
with barbed wire and budgets
dipped in blood.
They call it strategy.
I call it
the art of forgetting
what a lullaby sounds like.
I asked the wind—
where does peace live now?
She said:
“Wherever a woman
chooses to forgive,
but not forget.”
I asked the moon—
how do I find it?
He whispered:
“In the breath
you take
before you strike back.”
Once, I thought peace
was a treaty,
a table,
a handshake.
Now I know—
peace is a mother
choosing to feed
a stranger’s child
after hers is gone.
Peace is a man
who buries his weapon
before his father.
Peace is a country
that learns to weep
for its enemy’s dead.
They say
war writes history.
But I have seen—
it is peace
that writes
what is human.
In the end,
peace is not found—
it is chosen,
by those
brave enough
to stop shouting
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