The Persian Cats Do Not Declare War Poem by Mystic Qalandar

They skipped the signing—
the quills that sliced the sky into visas.
No paw-print on the parchment
that taught fire to swim oceans undocumented.

They are born to courtyards of memory:
tongues scented with the breath of poets,
walls still warm with empires' afterglow—
never their rubble,
never the architects of ruin.

Yet maps shifted.
Distant lines breathed their verdicts.
Sanctions starved like a slow drought.
A button, warm as a prayer stone,
whispered necessity
to ears that had forgotten how to listen.

Night arrived as a machine.
Steel barked.
Fire seared the holy places.
The sky—once a script of signs—
was rewritten in intercepts,
in the flat grammar of drones.

The Persian cats: unasked, unnamed,
now branded order.

Who authors war and calls it defense
from a continent's remove?
Who tallies peace in fear's cold coin,
then exports it as gospel?

They do not ape the violence.
They rise—breath sanctioned,
a refusal old as marrow:
refusal to footnote a people's soul
for late-arriving editors,
refusal to let al-naft blaze unwatched,
refusal to rename a pulse
as collateral.

In the unseen—
which is not a place but a remembering—
peace endures.
Not chamber-bargained,
not clause-stitched,
but essence: prime, pre-border,
no empire's script upon it.

It lingers in shattered dust.
It sleeps inside a child's Hafiz verse
sung under sirens.
The gentle recall origin,
though origin has been bombed.

This is what terrifies power:
the warless outlast war.
The soft refuse vanishing.
The cat who does not fight
but simply is—
unmoved by the fever of maps.

They declared none.
But in breath, in ruin,
in the stubborn recall of roses—
they declare:
We were here.
We endured.
No distant hand erases
the Divine script.

It was never written in ink.
It was breathed into beings
who do not declare war—
only saying:
we will not let you erase
our breed,
our habitat,
our divinely ordained being.

—MyKoul