In the halls of polished speech,
where curtains are drawn with trembling fingers,
he weaves stories –
an old man with the embers of history in his eyes.
He speaks of survival,
invokes sorrow baked into desert stone,
palms pressed to the heart
as if each syllable is a prayer.
But outside,
the sand is soaked not with ancient memory
but with futures denied,
grief rising through the olive branches,
the calls for mercy drowned
in wreckage and siren songs.
The world watches –
or it claims to.
Eyes glazed by distance,
calculations written on napkins
in conference rooms ablaze with electric light,
where dignity is sold
for whispers of alliance,
where the price of turning away
is measured in barrels and votes.
He knows –
oh, how he knows –
how to cup the West’s fear
like water,
how to hold it until thirst shapes policy,
truth bent to fit a trembling hand.
But in each broken street,
in every cradle,
the question persists:
what is the weight of a child
against the cogs of strategy?
How many lies
before the sum of them
blots out
the names,
the faces,
the hope?
There is no dignity
in the re-writing of wounds,
no honour in erasing
voices that sing of freedom
even at the edge of breath.
History will remember –
beyond borders,
beyond speeches,
the price of deception:
not only the ruin of the deceived,
but the ruin
of those who chose
not to see.
