We Watch as They Fall

Rockets rise like prayers gone wrong,
stitched to the sky in fire and song.
One heads for Gaza, another for Kyiv
a third, perhaps, where old hopes grieve.

We sit in rooms with cups of tea,
mute witnesses to tragedy.
Screens flicker war in black and white,
as if the blood weren't red with fright.

No sirens here, no dust, no screams,
just curated apocalypse in dreams.
A sofa swallows disbelief,
while silence wraps around our grief.

Iran weeps smoke, Ukraine bears scars,
Gaza crumbles beneath the stars.
And still, we scroll, we flip, we yawn,
as if the world weren't being drawn
in ash and flame, in cries and stone,
while every child dies alone.

What will we say when silence speaks,
when memory drips through history’s leaks?
That we were too far, too safe, too late?
Or that we quietly sealed their fate?

Let the rockets fly, then, if they must,
but let not our hearts turn to dust.