The sky once rang with children’s laughter bright,
Now choked by smoke and swallowed by the night.
Small shoes lie still where dreams were meant to run
What victory is won when none have won?
Who taught the earth to thirst for so much red?
Who crowns with pride the quiet, nameless dead?
Why does no conscience rise, no mercy plead,
While hatred plants its bitter, blood-soaked seed?
Does power blind the hearts that choose the flame?
Do leaders tremble not at children’s names?
How long shall mothers kneel on shattered stone,
And cradle grief where hope had once been sown?
O Lord of mercy, bend our hardened will
Teach us the cost each drop of blood must spill.
For every life destroyed by war’s demand
Is held and counted in Your wounded hand.
MARYANN BOSAH 