Wasim Shaikh
I sleep under a broken sky,
Where stars once whispered bedtime stories…
Now they fall like burning sparks,
And even the moon hides its face.
I walk through streets
Where laughter once lived —
Now only silence breathes.
Not the peaceful silence…
The one that waits for the next explosion.
We used to draw with crayons.
Now we draw maps of loss in ashes.
Castles we built in sand —
Are now ruins that mark where we lived.
And lullabies?
They don’t sing anymore.
They scream.
I wanted to live.
I wanted to do something… anything.
I didn’t play with toys —
I played with dreams.
At the sound of the school bell,
I used to run down the streets,
Sometimes dreaming to be a pilot,
Sometimes a doctor…
But now I only dream of silence.
I was born under the same stars as you.
But mine never became dreams.
They fell —
as bullets,
as drones,
as smoke,
as death.
I held a crayon.
Now, my fingers bleed.
I ran to school.
Now I run from silence too loud to bear.
Have you heard a mother cry when her child goes still?
We have. We hear it every hour.
It rings louder than prayers.
Don’t you have children in your home?
A mother… a father… a sister… a brother?
Have you ever seen a newborn smile,
knowing it will never laugh?
That was me.
Born where bombs never rest.
Fear used to hide.
Now she eats with us,
Sleeps beside us,
Walks with every shaking breath.
She is no longer a coward —
She is survival.
She is the scream
We’re not allowed to speak.
What was the sin of my cradle?
What was the crime
to be born where bombs never stop?
Why do my tears cost less than your silence?
They say, “Stay strong.”
But how strong can bare feet be
on broken glass?
They ask, “Why don’t you leave?”
But where can we go,
when even the world has closed its doors?
My name is not in the news.
It’s carved into gravestones.
Into broken toys.
Into walls where family photos used to hang.
I am not a soldier.
I am not your politics.
I am a child —
who asked for candy and got shrapnel.
A father —
who buried his dreams with bare hands.
A mother —
whose lullaby became her last goodbye.
They say every war has two sides.
But I only see one side dying.
Over and over.
Quietly.
Proudly.
Forgotten.
We are not “casualties.”
We are not “collateral.”
We are stories stopped halfway.
Eyes that will never see a sunrise.
Hearts that burst
before they could know love.
And the world?
Scrolls.
Watches.
Moves on.
You change the channel.
We change the shroud.
But still —
We speak.
So let the fear rise like thunder.
Let it crack the silence
of those whose comfort came from
the death of our children.
Let it haunt those
who fold their arms
while our homes collapse into dust.
We are not just a warzone.
We are lullabies never finished.
Poems never read.
Birthdays never celebrated.
Weddings never danced.
If you are human — then speak.
If you have a heart — then feel.
I am already gone.
But my voice is not.
My ashes still whisper:
“I am not the enemy. I am the echo of your silence.”