They say words and weapons kill,
So our leaders drafted bill after bill.
Yet now we see, with mournful eyes—
Man needs neither to cause his demise.

It takes but a moment—
Then no voice, no sentiment
Will soften the sound
Of shattered dreams on blood-stained ground.

We stain our hands in crimson hue,
As bodies fall like morning dew.
Will all our learning, all we've known,
Protect us from the seeds we've sown?

Hospital beds brim with decay,
While empty roads echo dismay.
Doctors and drugs—our sacred names,
The only light in fevered flames.

But how do we heal when we can't touch?
When plans dissolve into not much?
Each breath we take a laboured feat,
As death creeps closer, silent, sweet.

We whisper, “Survive or die,”—a cruel divide,
Yet truth reveals: it’s from our lies we hide.
Money buys neither breath nor grace;
We stand as witness, hollow-faced.

And even as this plague moves past,
We dwell in glass, imprisoned fast.
Still aching, yet our spirits fight—
The will to live a stubborn light.

We've faced the storm, endured the worst,
Outlived the curse, reversed the curse.
And now we wait for morning’s rise—
Man, perhaps, a little more wise.