Nature's Silence, After the Siren
Before the first siren tore the sky, there was the stone,
Cool and patient, holding the sun's old memory of warmth.
Before the tracer's arc, the river's constant drone,
A hymn for roots, not for the crumbling of a home.
We poets have filled our pages with the human cry,
With righteous rage, with elegies for shattered bone.
But what of the olive tree that watched the children die,
Whose gnarled bark now cradles shrapnel, all alone?
Listen. Beneath the thrum of drones, a deeper sound:
The soil's slow breath, the patient turn of seasons underground.
It is not peace—peace is a human, fragile art—
But an older, sterner silence, ready to restart.
This is the poem I bring you: do not write of guns,
But of the single seed that splits the tank's cold treads.
Do not just mourn the smoke that blots out fathers, sons,
But chart the stubborn green that threads the riverbeds.
For when the last report has echoed into space,
The argument of vines will still reclaim this place.
They will not speak of victory, or draw a line,
But simply, quietly, design a different vine.
And we must learn from this—to be not just a voice
That shouts an endless protest to the deafened air,
But to be like water, wearing down the noise,
And like the silent, growing things that choose to still be there.
So let our verses be the root, not just the rose.
The quiet, after, that a shattered world someday will know.
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