It begins in silence,
not the peace of harmony,
but the quiet after thunder,
where smoke still curls like questions.

Bootprints in dust,
empty helmets like hollow prayers,
this is where the bridge begins.

Not built of stone or steel,
but of hands once clenched into fists,
now trembling,
uncertain how to open.

It stretches across a chasm of memory,
spanned by grief,
anchored in the bones of the fallen.

On one side,
the clamor of commands,
the roar of machines,
the echo of rage.

On the other,
a child planting seeds,
a mother sweeping shattered glass,
s soldier laying down his rifle
to carry water instead.

The bridge is not quick to cross.
Each step is an act of surrender,
not to the enemy,
but to humanity.

Those who reach the other side
do not forget what lies behind.
The carry the weight with them,
not as a burden,
but as vow.