The Names They Never Said

Morning rush and crowded streets,

Parents hurry, quick goodbyes.

Girls sit down in wooden seats,

Dreams still bright inside their eyes.

Fatima reads late every night,

Learning bones and how hearts run.

“Someday, I will heal the sick,”

She whispers softly, full of sun.

Layla draws the sky in blue,

Gardens wide and rivers long.

Every page a painted world,

Every line a hopeful song.

Aisha runs through fields of green,

Laughing under Persian skies.

Wind and flowers in the air,

Playfulness dancing in her eyes.

Ordinary morning light.

Ordinary schoolyard play.

Just a morning like a thousand.

Nothing strange beneath the sun.

Far away a glowing screen

Shows a map with careful lines.

Red coordinates appear.

Someone nods and someone signs.

Then a shadow cuts the sky.

Something faster than a scream

Metal tearing through the day!

Thunder splits the living ground

Walls and windows blown away!

Dust and fire, broken stone.

Children’s voices lost in cries!

Where the playground used to be

Only smoke and silence rise…

“Mariam!”, “Fatima!”

Mothers searching through the dust,

Calling names that fill the air.

A ribbon on the shattered gate.

A shoe lying on the stair.

Perhaps the data came too old.

Perhaps the map was wrong.

Perhaps no one cared enough

To check the place belonged

On glowing screens still voices speak,

Of range and speed and flawless aim—

They praise the rockets perfect arc,

But never say the girls’ soft names.