Sponsored by the Ministry of Preventive Peace

- in memory of nothing that happened yet -

They said
it was to stop the blood
before it bled,
to silence the scream
before it had a mouth.

A preventive strike,
like chopping down the forest
because you feared the trees
might whisper
your secrets
to the wind.

The missiles rose
like prayers
from trembling hands
seeking gods
they invented
in war rooms
with no windows.

They called it peace
while crushing its bones
in velvet press releases.
Their bombs had names
like liberty,
and their lies
wore suits
tailored in denial.

We saw the cities,
not burning yet,
so they burned them.
We heard the children,
not crying yet,
so they made them cry
into ash and absence.

They spoke of danger
like prophets
with blindfolds,
preaching fear
from a pulpit of drones,
claiming the future
tasted of gunpowder
unless eaten first.

But who strikes
before the sun rises,
except the thief?
Who kills
a sleeping thought
but the coward
too brittle
to face the mirror?

No,
there is no such thing
as a preventive strike.
Only aggression
wrapped in a shroud
of premonitions,
signed by the ghosts
of unborn enemies.

Let this be clear:
peace does not arrive
riding a warhead.
And justice
never wears
a trigger.

This poem was proudly
sponsored
by the Ministry of Preventive Peace,
established 0900 hours,
dismantled 0901,
after discovering
truth
could not be
preempted.