Where Peace Still Wait Poem by Natasa To

Where Peace Still Waits

In Ukraine, the winter fields lie white,
Snow gathers softly on broken stone.
A distant siren cuts the night,
And empty streets remember home.

Where wheat once shimmered beneath the sun,
Dark columns rise beyond the plain.
Yet seeds lie sleeping, one by one,
Dreaming of green after the rain.

In Iran, beneath an ancient sky,
The mountains hold their patient watch.
Through restless streets, the hours pass by,
While fragile hopes refuse to stop.

The moon pours silver on every roof,
A quiet light through dust and fear.
A child draws windows, trees, a room—
A world where no explosion comes near.

War carves its sorrow into the earth,
Leaves ash where gardens used to bloom.
It measures victory by what is lost,
While grief sits quietly in every room.

From Kyiv's snow to Tehran's stone,
The human heart knows no frontier.
A mother's prayer is still her own,
A child's small laughter still sounds clear.

Let guns grow silent, mile by mile;
Let dawn return to streets once scarred.
Let birds reclaim the morning sky,
And doors swing open, no longer barred.

For peace is not merely the end of fire—
It is bread on a table, a lamp in the hall,
A field turning gold, a child climbing higher,
And people rebuilding what war made fall.

And when the last dark cloud has passed,
Let wheat rise green from fields of pain.
Let children plant their dreams at last,
And let the earth breathe peace again.
For every scar, let something grow;
For every tear, let sunlight start.
Let peace be more than words we know—
Let it become the world we make by heart.