Children of War
A poem
They play in the rubble of their homes,
making dolls from scraps of cloth,
soldiers from sticks and stones.
Their laughter echoes hollow
in streets that have forgotten peace.
Dreams are luxuries here,
where survival is the only game that matters.
Yet still, they find ways to be children,
resilient as wildflowers in a war zone.
Their eyes hold secrets no child should know,
hands that should cradle toys
now sift through debris for food.
In the midst of destruction,
they paint hope on crumbling walls,
whisper lullabies to each other,
and dare to imagine a different world.
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