Frontlines

Shattered horizons and enduring hope: a poem navigating the raw realities of the West Asia crisis.

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The news says the planet is burning again,

forests collapsing like tired old men.

Oceans are rising, the glaciers retreat,

heat waves march on with militant feet.

They say it is crisis, a climate affair —

smoke in the skyline, ash in the air.

Leaders debate while cities drown slow,

seeds never planted refuse to grow.

Missiles are drawn on maps in red,

lines that divide what once was shared.

Borders are sharpened, sirens complain,

children inherit the fallout and rain.

They call it a war for oil and land,

for power, for pride, for upper hand.

A battle of egos, loud and grand —

while ordinary hearts barely withstand.

And I watch it all from the edge of my bed,

scrolling through headlines inside my head.

Because something in me feels just the same —

a private war without a name.

My thoughts are troops that never sleep,

they guard old wounds they swore to keep.

My doubts invade without consent,

leave craters where my calm once went.

My oceans rise when I can’t speak,

flooding the strength I call “unique.”

My forests burn with silent rage,

smoke curling thick behind my cage.

I draw my borders, tight and wide,

let no one see what lives inside.

I ration hope like fragile bread,

prepare for storms not yet ahead.

They say the earth needs time to heal,

cooling skies and soil to feel.

They say if we care, if we repair,

there’s still a future breathing there.

So maybe my world is not undone,

just overheated by the sun.

Maybe the wars I fight alone

are climates I have overgrown.

If earth can bloom through ash and scar,

if broken skies can hold a star,

then maybe beneath this chaos and strife —

there’s still green growing in my life.