The Planners' Peace
Smoke curls where laughter once lived,
a street of bricks turned brittle dust,
where a child once dreamed of growing wings.
The air carries a silence loud with grief,
a mother clutching memories,
a father holding nothing but loss.
They did not draw the lines on maps,
nor whisper strategies in darkened rooms,
yet their lives unravel like old cloth
under the weight of decisions made afar.
The planners sip their coffee in gilded halls,
speaking of targets,
of victories counted in nameless numbers.
They do not hear the wailing,
do not taste the ash.
A young boy picks through rubble,
searching for his sister's doll,
while across the sea,
the architects of ruin sleep soundly,
unmarked by the war they waged.
History will forget the names of the fallen,
but the planners' statues will stand tall,
their faces carved in stone,
their hands bloodless.
And so, the innocent bear the cost,
their bodies the ledger,
their pain the ink.
The war ends,
but for them, it never truly does.
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