Whose Life?

It's always the common people who pay first.  
They don’t write the speeches or sign the orders.  
But when the dust rises, they’re the ones buried under.


In Gaza, families sit in the dark.  
Electricity’s a luxury, water’s a hope.  
No one asks why the rockets are falling.  
They just run, or they don’t,  
and then it’s over.


Across the world, leaders sit in rooms with polished floors.  
They talk in circles, with words that don’t mean much anymore.  
Peace, war, freedom, terror—  
they shift with the wind, depending on who’s buying,  
or who’s selling.


And somewhere far from the noise,  
contracts are signed for more bombs, more tanks, more fear.  
But it’s not their children pulling the pieces of homes out of rubble.
It’s all just business, isn’t it?  
But what about the man who just wants to till his land?  
What about the woman who looks for her son every morning  
because the last time she saw him,  
he was running away from the flash of a missile?  
Who pays for them?


Borders mean nothing to the dead.  
They don’t care for the politics,  
the causes,  
the flags.  
It’s all blood and dirt when the shell hits.


Some fight for their homes,  
some fight because they’re told,  
and others, from far away,  
fight to keep their markets alive—  
selling death in clean packages,  
delivered on time.


But the streets tell a different story.  
Not of heroes or villains,  
just people trying to live another day  
under skies that grow darker by the hour.  
The world burns in pieces,  
but the ones who burn the most  
are the ones who never asked for it.


And when the guns stop—if they ever do—  
the fields will still be empty,  
the cities will still be hollow,  
and the people who once had lives  
will stand in the ruins,  
wondering why no one heard them.