The wind does not ask whom it bruises,
it just moves-
carrying ash,carrying breath,
unaware of the screams it muffles.

A child sits where light should be,
but the sun is veiled in smoke.
His hands,once soft with wonder,
now grip silence like a weapon.

They said it was necessary.
They said it was order.
But the toy is broken,
and the lullaby bleeds.

There is no lesson in suffering,
only the sound of it-
echoing in rooms where names
have been forgotten,
but cries still bloom.

And in the name of power,
they tear the page
before the story ever begins.