White Smoke

Or why the West cares more about one old white dude dying than all the children in Gaza being torn to bits.

They carry popes like a god. Gaza carries its dead alone.

White smoke,

black screens—

the world in mourning

for a man draped in silk and fable,

history’s pale son,

his voice drifting

through stained glass and satellite,

soft as confession.

They talk of legacy,

of peace and bridges—

but I hear

only the hum of well-oiled machinery,

the canonised silence

of a thousand cameras

pointed the wrong way.

Meanwhile—

in Gaza,

the earth drinks

its own children again.

Mothers wail into darkness

with no audience,

no anchor,

no name in the news crawl

beneath papal eulogies.

A white man dies,

and the world stops.

Brown children die,

and the world—

does not.

I want to know:

when will their blood

make headlines?

When will the broken hands

of women,

sifting through the rubble

for a last heartbeat,

outweigh

the ritual of mourning

one more priest

of power?

You sold fairytales

and they call it faith.

In Gaza,

the only miracles

are survival.

Tell me—

which god gets

the front page?