Language of Poetry

The rhythms of life, spun around

Uttered syllables of human life, weaving magic

In the forlorn language of poetries

Glittered across the sunset skies

To the simple touches of humanity

In a wrinkled face, smiling

In night's tender touches of innocence

To love’s secret whispers in winds

Rhythms spun around, weaving poetical magic

Poetry is often seen as the language of emotion, the ability to feel the tenderness of a flower beneath a morning sky. It captures the hidden beauty of the universe, meant to be felt rather than merely explored. Yet, in a world where the children of Gaza scream for a single soul to show them pity, where suffering echoes in their cries, beauty fades into irrelevance. In those moments, I feel their curses upon my skin, a burden that weighs heavily on my conscience. Our silence becomes a deafening force, shattering lives like an unrelenting death. How, then, can I write poetry when my hands are stained with the blood of my silence?

I write when flesh burns to death, when hopes are discarded like rotting flesh, when dreams turn to ashes. I write not just to express, but to bear witness, to the guilt, to the screams I have only seen through the cold distance of a screen, wrapped in the comfort of ignorance. My poetry does not speak of blood but of the ashes left behind. I write of a humanity bound by self-love and indifference, where scholars and intellectuals spill their knowledge onto pages, adorning their words with metaphors, similes, assonance, and every poetic device that lends rhythm and beauty to their expressions. But often, these words are just another form of silence, decorated ignorance in the face of suffering.

I take a blank sheet and type out my guilt, attempting to write poetry for the skies that the children of Gaza will never see. I try to write the language of poetry, not with magic dust, but with ashes, carried away by the flood of unseen tears. Yet, I return to writing about skies and innocence, mourning the loss of those who will never know them. No poem will ever hold enough words for the suffering of the world's children.

Today, the language of poetry is no longer just beauty and rhythm, it is pain, it is loss, and it is the cry of those whom the world has abandoned.