The Diaspora of War

I.
War begins as a shadow stretching across centuries,
from Jebel Sahaba where ancient bones
still murmur of hands discovering power
like a dangerous new fire.
Communities scatter in its wake,
seeds flung from a shaking earth,
their roots torn before they understand they were ever holding on.
Families fray into wandering threads,
colors bleeding into unfamiliar soil,
while those who command from distant rooms cup dominion in their palms
as if it were water they alone could drink.

II.
Inside the same storm walks the soldier,
a figure wrapped in a uniform sewn from duty, doubt, and borrowed stories.
He moves through villages emptied of their own breath,
doors swinging like lonely clocks counting the seconds since laughter fled.

His memories…

A mother’s voice, a dog’s calm sigh float beside him like fragile lanterns
in a wind that never rests.
He steps forward anyway,
boots sinking into the wet cement of consequence,
while orders fall from above like polished stones skipping across oceans
too far to feel the sinking.

III.
Those uprooted and those sent to uproot drift in the same widening diaspora,
ash searching for a place to settle,
names carried on winds that never learned to stop.
Some survive by wandering,
others by folding into themselves like unopened letters left on a doorstep of history.
And in the end, war leaves only this:
a world stunned into rubble and silence,
where soldier and civilian stand together in the same broken clearing,
the remnants indistinguishable,
like an anthill or beehive collapsed,
destroyed by children with guns of play.

And yet…

From the shattered ground, something living still reaches upward,

tearfully remembering how to bloom.