Where Peace Bleeds Slowly

I arrived in Moscow on a morning veiled in silence, the sky holding its breath over the Kremlin. Putin’s eyes met Zelenskyy’s— not as enemies, but men who had buried too many sons. The vodka was cold, but the room burned with memory. I said nothing at first— sometimes, silence is the loudest wisdom. Then I spoke: “Peace is not the absence of war, but the end of vengeance.” And for once, they listened. We signed no treaties. We touched no scrolls. We shared the blood of truth in our throats. And the wind outside wept like a mother waiting for her child to come home from history. Then I flew to Tel Aviv, where fear walked in human skin. Netanyahu sat beneath gold and ghosts. He asked me, “Will they forgive me?” I replied, “Only the dead forgive without condition. But the living—they demand justice with breath and bone.” His hands trembled. His voice cracked under the weight of Gaza’s rubble. And still, I saw a man— not a monster, just a soul drowning in the empire’s wine. I called Trump. I called Ursula. I summoned António. The room was a battlefield of ideologies. But truth, like a sword, sliced through the noise: “No one wins in war. Not truly. Not eternally.” Five hours later— The two-state solution, Rebuilding Palestine, A decade of reparations, An erased indictment in exchange for a public confession. Then I boarded a plane for Sudan. Congo. Libya. Where peace still bleeds slowly into the soil of forgotten kingdoms. I carry no title. No crown. Just a pen sharper than any bayonet and a heart that cannot stop mourning. Call me what you will— Diplomat, heretic, dreamer, But know this: When the last bomb drops, When the last child cries, It will not be generals who write the future— It will be poets.