When The Sirens Cry Poem by Natasa To

In Ukraine, the sirens call
beneath a wounded sky,
while shattered windows hold the ghosts
of moments passing by.

In Iran, the streets grow still,
then thunder breaks the night;
through smoke and fear, the people search
for one small ray of light.

A mother holds her trembling child,
a father walks alone;
a thousand dreams lie buried deep
beneath the fallen stone.

The flags may wave, the borders stand,
the reasons may be told,
but war leaves scars on human hearts
that never can be sold.

And somewhere underneath the noise,
a quiet prayer remains:
Let children wake to morning bells,
not rockets, fire, and flames.

Let Ukraine rebuild its broken homes,
let Iran find peaceful days;
let human voices rise above
the thunder of the blaze.

For every life is more than war,
more precious than a name—
and peace begins when we decide
no child should fear the flame.