The Scroll of Ashes

 They film the blast before the cry,

A child erased beneath the sky.

The lens stays still, the likes flood in—

Another badge, another sin.

They watch me hold my daughter’s hand,

Or what remains in shattered sand.

A thousand eyes across the sea—

But none will raise a hand for me.

A captioned corpse, a burning town—

Each post a crown, each shot renown.

Empathy worn like a filter’s hue,

“We stand with…”—but for whom, and who?

You used her eyes to feel more real,

To prove you cry, to prove you feel.

But did you ever kneel and see

The way she curled inside of me?

In ivory words, they wage their wars,

On couches soft, behind closed doors.

A flag emoji, retweeted pain,

Then brunch, then memes, then war again.

She trended once. Her limbs, her bow,

But none recall her name by now.

You shared her face. You scrolled her death.

You sighed, then laughed, then took a breath.

A ghost in pixels, then the void.

The outrage felt, the grief deployed.

The screen goes dark, the scroll goes cold,

And all that's left is what they sold.

No boots in mud, no siren call,

Just echo chambers built to brawl.

Their mirror shows a soldier’s face—

Though they have never touched that place.

We sleep beneath a sky of drones,

While you debate in measured tones.

You weigh our deaths on balance sheets,

And call it truth in Twitter feeds.

My child was not your war décor,

Not proof that you abhor the war.

She dreamed of clouds, not martyrdom—

She’s not the reason battles come.

So take her face off of your wall,

Unless you’ll answer when we call.

We are not symbols. We are skin.

And we were whole—before the din.