She doesn’t cry—her throat forgot the sound.
No food. No water. Just a mother’s stare.
Her child’s bones knock like glass beneath her skin.
They wait for death. No doctor’s hands, no light.

A school is shelled. The chalkboard bursts in blood.
The maths is simple: one bomb kills a class.
The lies are printed fresh on every screen—
"We target threats." But infants make no war.

A surgeon cuts without anaesthetic now.
The scalpel shakes. The nurses beg for gauze.
A father holds a leg, no child attached.
The drones still hum, and rubble breathes in screams.

They say: We hunt the killers in their holes.
Then why does every strike ignite a home?
Why starve a million just to find a few?
Why shoot at tents, then call it just a flare?

Netanyahu thrones on ashes, grins,
He trades the word defence for righteous wrath.
He bombs a breadline, calls the dead Hamas.
And dares to ask: Why do they hate the Jews?

This is not shield. This is not sacred law.
This is not war. It’s slaughter by design.
And every silence stamps it once again.
The world debates. The children die alone.

You post a flag. You write: It’s complicated.
While Gaza drinks the dark of poisoned wells.
Each breath they take is through a sniper’s scope.
Each prayer they speak is marked for burial.

If this is peace, then peace is butchery.
If this is law, then justice lies in chains.
The world has words—but Gaza has no air.
How loud must death speak till you call it real?