Why do we have to be the delicate bone inside the iron fist that wrapped us?
Why couldn’t we be a home to our body?
Why don’t they spare us home nor body?
And why should we be deleted, sentence by sentence, word by word, letter by letter in our own ink and paper?
What kind of hands holding the eraser?
The ones who fire missiles and carry the riffle?
Why couldn’t we rest in peace in our bed, tugged by loved ones? Why do we have to rest in peace in the coffin, the graveyard, under the burial of our people’s grief?
Why is humanity sleeping on us while we are wide awake scared that it will be the last time we open our eyes?
Why are the leaders running from their sworn oath to protect their fellow human while we’re running rubbles through rubbles every minute and hour?
Does the world dancing to our children’s blood curdling screams?
How many blood needed to be shed to cease this raging fire?
How much tears are needed to fill the river and the sea?
