Ash

Dark nights. Cold talks.

Here, in my tiny space, where doors were taken away and windows lay shattered.

A lone woman stood above the ruins, staring at how everything burned.

She ran to fight the fire with ink

and bleeding words,

but she realized it too late.

The wind was storming,

the air vying with itself.

She held her papers and her blood,

a horrible numbness

in her heartbeat.

She whispered:

It's alright.

It's just a nightmare.

No one will know-under her nickname, Ash.

She went down the stairs of the void,

reaching for doors and windows -

for dreams, safety, and will -

but none of them was alive.

The echo of genocide

struck everything.

Little birds on the shade tree

The sill was bashed

Tiny memories were crushed.

No home stayed there,

waiting for her.

The windows danced

to the music of death.

And still,

that lone woman stands by the window,

hoping to touch the sky one day,

holding what remains of hope -

that a day will come,

born

from the heart of hell.