One sets traps for doves,

Aged at the thresholds of emptiness,

Or bakes time slowly on a flame,

For patience to ripen within.

Amidst war’s chaos,

Love transforms into a necklace,

In a realm where swords shape tongues,

Silence rushes like a bustling market,

While tranquility, a mere adolescent,

Bets its heart at wisdom’s table.

In war’s grip,

We seek extra cheeks to cry upon,

A third leg to chase our souls,

And another neck to quell shrapnel’s passion.

Here, we refrain from waving,

Hiding the emptiness beneath our sleeves,

Saving our tears to preserve the departed in our gaze,

Singing to keep our throats from rusting,

Binding our hearts, casting them to the boat’s stern,

Sailing with conviction, evading the storm’s wrath.

In war’s shadows,

We adorn walls with the missing,

Become playthings in confusion’s hands,

Blackmailed by anxiety,

Questioning if we’ve built a graveyard or sanctuary,

No convincing answers, only shattered certainties.

In war’s silence,

Blood becomes our voice,

Words wander freely,

For the mouth is a rifle,

And stray bullets

A flowing river of blame.