The Last Silence
It isn’t a ceasefire. It’s the absence of targets.
It isn’t a ceasefire.
It’s the absence of targets.
Gaza lies still,
its breath a whisper,
its skin a map of scars
drawn by white phosphorus and endless drones.
Children do not cry anymore—
they are buried beneath the rubble,
their names written in dust
that clings to their mothers' hands.
The bombs stopped falling
because there is no one left
to scream.
This is not peace.
This is the silence of a mouth sewn shut,
the quiet after a predator has fed.
In the ruins,
the last echoes of laughter drift away,
a memory erased
like the town that stood here yesterday.
They call it a truce,
but we know better.
We’ve seen the way history folds over itself,
a paper crane crumpled and burned.
There will be no treaties, no olive branches.
Only the ghosts of Gaza—
watching,
waiting
for the world to finally see.