Ellina love writing poem's.

30/04/2026

Page number 1
Life
Life unfolds like morning after storm-lit sleep,
A map redrawn in sunlight where shadows keep.
Small hands of doubt grow gentle in the dawn,
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While every closed door learns the shape of being gone.
We gather up mornings like bright, unshelled things,
Collecting soft wisdom that the quiet brings.
Laughter is ballast; kindness, the keel—
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We learn how to steady what sorrow would steal.
There are rivers of change that insist we move on,
But each bend opens fields where new grasses have grown.
Footsteps remember the songs of the past,
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Yet take to the meadow where futures are cast.
Hope is a lantern with an unhurried flame,
It hums in the chest and calls out your name.
It asks not for certainty, only for trust,
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To turn small lost moments into light and good rust.
Love is a ledger of tiny, brave trades:
A hand in the dark, a hammock of shades.
Curiosity waters the saplings we plant,
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Making quiet wild groves from the smallest chant.
Mistakes are just teachers in ragged disguise,
Their lessons like lanterns to steady our eyes.
Forgiveness is honey that softens the sting,
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And courage a bell that keeps ringing.
So carry your compass and feed it with song,
Let wonder be steady and patience grow strong.
Build bridges of laughter across days that divide,
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Keep pockets of starlight for when nights are wide.
The world is vast, and its turning is kind:
Each ending a doorway to something designed.
Walk on with a promise knotted soft in your sleeve—
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Life is a long-answering yes you can weave.
- Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

I am thee artist of my life.

28/04/2026

Page number 1
Pune Summer
Heat on the Deccan, a slow, golden haze,
Pune wakes early to the sun’s bright blaze.
Boulevards shimmer, pavements hold the day,
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Banyan trees offer a patch of cool shade.
Two-wheelers hum past FC Road’s old charms,
College laughter spills like a cooling balm.
Mangoes blush in lanes with sweet, sticky hands,
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Vendors call out across the shimmering sands.
Evening brings a softer, amber light,
Tea stalls steam as cicadas sing into night.
Sahyadri silhouettes guard the fading sky,
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Promise of monsoon in each breath and sigh.
Until first clouds gather, the city stands warm,
A living hush before the rainstorm’s charm.
-Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

14/04/2026

Page number 1
Baba Saheb — Lamp of an Unlit Room
He came from mud and rain-worn dreams,
A boy who learned to bend the seams
Of caste and shame with patient hands,
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Who read the world and made demands.
Bhimrao—scholar of the long-forgotten page—
Who turned humiliation into rage
Not to destroy but to remake:
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Law, language, promise, every stake.
In halls of marble, drafts, and ink,
He taught the nation how to think;
A constitution born of sweat and wit,
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A scaffold where the tired could sit.
He named the wounds no tongue would speak,
Gave voice to those the powerful sought to break;
With books as armor, reason as his sword,
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He carved out justice with a fearless word.
From village steps to courtroom light,
He fought the dark with steady sight;
He led the walking, angry crowds
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Toward dignity that shook the clouds.
Not saint, not stranger to the sting—
He knew the costs that courage brings.
Yet still he planted schoolroom seeds,
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That learning might outgrow old creeds.
And when the hour called for faith anew,
He chose the path the free pursue:
A life reborn, a people’s claim—
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To walk, unshamed, beneath one name.
Baba Saheb, whose lamp remains,
A quiet blaze that breaks the chains—
We bear your torch through wind and rain,
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Till liberty is not a dream but plain.
Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

05/04/2026

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Istar
Istar, morning-star of desert and dawn,
you wake the city with a silver hymn,
trace of light on clay and reed and stone—
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a promise carved in the hush before work.
You braid the river with gold and flame,
call forth the wheat, the heartbeat of houses,
and ride the lion whose mane is thunder,
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both savior and storm held in one bright hand.
Your footfall sets the reeds to humming,
your breath the bell that wakes the river’s face.
Sand curls in your hair; thunder hangs on your robe.
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Priests lift lamps; lovers hold their breath;
children chase your shadow through market alleys,
old women bless the places your sandals touch.
Pomegranates split like small suns at your feet,
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hands that tremble become hands that build.
You teach the moon to be jealous of your light,
teach the fields to remember rain and song.
In your palm the stubborn seeds relent;
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stone keeps the echo of your laughter.
Lions sleep with jaws closed like vows,
bandits polish knives into reflections of you—
both orchard and blade, both harbor and storm,
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first hunger and the cure that follows.
Under the eight-pointed star you stand,
a bridge of fire between sky and bone.
Every small grief becomes a drum that marches toward dawn,
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and every ending wears a beginning’s skin.
Stand, Istar, with your star pinned to your breast,
let the plain rise like bread beneath your feet—
in your light the world is remade: wild, fierce, aching,
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and even silence opens its hands when you pass.
- Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

03/04/2026

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Good Friday
They draped the noon in slow, obedient hush,
the sky stooped as if ashamed to shine.
Dust remembered every footstep down the road,
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olive-scent and whispered prayers marking the way.
Wood took the shape of a terrible promise,
iron sang its small, relentless music through the air.
A crown of thorns, a twisted halo of thorn and grief,
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pressed sorrow into a face of quiet grace.
He breathed a single word—Forgive—and the world shifted,
tears speaking where thunder might have been.
Silence made room for mercy to move like a seed,
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pressed deep into dark earth by sorrow's careful hand.
Beneath that heavy, nearly holy night we kept our vigil,
standing at the grave of the day with candles and hush.
What looked like ending held the careful beginning:
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pain did not have the last word, and love learned to hold a dawn.
- Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

30/03/2026

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Eid
Morning breaks on a crescent of silver,
the sky still holding the hush of night.
Lamp-smoke unwinds from rooftops,
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and the city blinks awake in prayerful light.
Children hush their games to listen
for the soft chorus of the takbir,
voices rising like ribbons of sound
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to stitch the dawn to the day’s bright heart.
They press their foreheads to cool tiles,
then leap into new clothes and laughter,
small feet tapping on the threshold of belonging.
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Old men fold hands like well-read pages,
women tie scarves with the care of blessings.
The mosque doors open like memories,
and people stream in, faces washed in peace.
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Eid comes first as a quiet yes—
a surrender of hunger, an answered fast,
or a remembrance of a promise kept
in a time when faith called for sacrifice.
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Hands meet in embrace, palms speak of pardon,
eyes exchange the simple prayer: Eid Mubarak.
Aunts unfold baskets of sweets—kaju, sheer khurma,
strings of seviyan glistening like dawn.
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Trays clink with samosas, dates, and honeyed things,
and the kitchen hums its age-old hymn:
laughter, stories, and the slow, sure stirring of food.
There are gifts wrapped in careful paper,
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coins pressed into tiny palms,
and girls paint henna like rivers on their hands—
flowers for the wrist, crescents for the knuckle.
Outside, the market is a pageant of color:
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scarves like flags, shoes like small ships,
the perfume of rosewater, cardamom, and dust.
On fields and hills where prayers stretch long,
people bow in rows that cross language and land.
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The sermon folds grief and gratitude together,
reminds us of the poor at the edges of feasts,
of hands that need help and hearts that need mending.
Charity is not a coin but a bridge:
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food carried to the doorsteps of the lonely,
a voice on the phone for someone living far away.
For some, Eid carries the memory of sacrifice—
a story of faith, a story of giving up
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for the sake of a promise older than grief.
Smoke curls from grills where lamb turns slow,
aromas like an offering to the wind,
while neighbors share meat and bread
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and old songs find new mouths to hold them.
Children run with ribbons and kites,
their laughter a kind of answering to heaven.
Cities glow in the evening as lamps are strung,
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lanterns sway like gentle moons in alleys.
Families stroll under the softened night,
counting stars and stories, trading quiet jokes.
A grandfather points to a face in a photograph,
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and for a breath the past sits at the table.
Stories flow like tea: mischief, weddings, losses,
and the small bright moments that stitch us whole.
Eid is a gathering of hands and weather,
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a day when pride bows and forgiveness moves in.
It is a clean cup, rinsed of bitterness,
a candle lit against the long dark months.
It is the song of neighbors who remember to share,
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the extra plate set at every table,
the step taken toward someone’s house of sorrow,
a visit that turns absence into company.
And at night, when lamps burn down to memory,
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there is a hush that is not empty but full:
the hush of kites sinking home, of prayers folded like quilts,
the hush of a child’s breath soft in sleep.
Tomorrow the world will call again with its noise,
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but tonight the moon keeps watch like a promise.
Eid is more than a day marked on a calendar;
it is a hand offered and a hand taken,
a promise renewed that we will be kinder,
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that we will remember those who cannot eat.
May the joy you wear today last as courage tomorrow.
May your tables multiply for the hungry,
your forgiveness open doors long closed,
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and your songs teach the next small mouths to sing.
Eid Mubarak—in every light, in every house,
in the slow return of peace to the plain.
Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

29/03/2026

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Palm Sunday
They paved the road with morning—cloth and breath and prayer,
green blades like bright exclamation points against the sky.
A man rides low, and light leans nearer to listen,
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as palms clap soft applause for one who comes to stay.
Children scatter shawls like seasons, laughter skipping stones,
voices lift a single word: Hosanna—an old, new hope.
Dust settles into footprints that will mean both welcome and wound,
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and every leaf trembles with the hush of things to come.
Sun tastes of copper and of honey on clay roofs,
and the city folds itself around the slow, sure passage.
Between the cheers and the quiet, prophecy walks on two feet,
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holding a fragile kingdom in the palm of a hand.
Later, those same palms will fold into memory and prayer,
reminding us that praise can live beside sorrow's seed.
For now the air is full of green, and a promise rides the road,
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soft as a borrowed c**t, bright as a beginning.
- Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

28/03/2026

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Ramadan
The crescent hangs like a promise stitched into the night,
A silver thread that sews the sky to something kinder.
Dawn remembers its own name—suhoor whispers in small kitchens,
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The quiet clink of spoons against bowls, the hush of feet on tiles.
Sleep folds back its edges; lanterns keep their patient glow,
And the world, for a while, is lucid with intention.
Day opens like a palm held out, expectant and empty,
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A space made sacred by restraint. Thirst becomes a teacher,
Hunger a slow, honest tutor that strips away excess.
Each hour is an hour of seeing—how much we take for given,
How much of kindness slips unnoticed through our hands.
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We learn to listen to the body’s language of need,
And hear beneath it the soft, older language of the soul.
In markets, apricots blush behind closed shutters,
And dates wait like little promises on plates set for breaking.
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Mosques gather their quiet breath and hold it—long, then longer—
As voices rise in the pattern of an old, beloved rhythm.
Taraweeh folds the night into prayers that sway
Like trees remembering wind, like ships remembering tide.
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Verses of the Qur’an spill from mouths like water
And find thirsty ground in hearts that thought themselves barren.
The clock loses its tyranny; minutes are not measured but kept,
Ringing inwardly like coins in a palm, to be given away.
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Charity becomes new currency—socks, soup, a face turned kind.
Neighbors swap dates and dishes as if these small trades
Might broker peace between tired lives. A child learns
That bread is not only eaten but offered, and the hand that gives
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Is counted in the ledger of God, in a book that no taxman reads.
Night after night, the moon keeps a patient vigil,
While lantern-light sketches palms and scarves and old men’s beards.
Conversations thin to what matters: forgiveness, apology,
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The names of those who have gone, the places that hold memory.
Families gather like magnets, the table a quiet orbit,
And laughter, when it comes, is sacrament enough.
To break the fast is to break open—mouths, hands, the day’s tight seams—
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And find that mercy has been simmering all along.
There is a pilgrimage inside each fasting hour—
A small return, a circling back to better edges of self.
We face our hunger and find in it a bridge to someone else’s.
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We practice patience as artisans practice craft:
Trimming the rough, polishing the small, learning the slow art
Of holding to an intention beyond appetite.
And with each sunset that hands us the meal,
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We are handed back a world slightly reclaimed.
Children wake before dawn with eyes like newly minted coins,
Wondering at the grown-up quiet, tasting the sanctity of waking.
They learn the cadence of the prayers like nursery songs,
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And in their learning is a kind of hope—fresh and stubborn.
Elders lean forward and tell the stories that hold the lineage:
The long walks, the shared bread, the names of villages,
The old recipes that smell like coming-home and time.
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In the city, traffic thins and cafes sleep; in the village,
Roosters know to hold their tongues for a while longer.
The world makes room for reflection—roads fold inward, people look up.
And in the quiet that Ramadan keeps by habit,
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There is a daily unburdening, a shedding of things that weigh.
We remember that every blessing is a trust, and every gift a loan,
And that gratitude is not only a prayer but a posture of living.
The last ten nights arrive like a sudden jewel—
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Deeper, rarer, as if the moon itself were more intent.
We press closer to the hinges of the holy, searching for Lailat al-Qadr,
The night more luminous than a thousand months.
Somewhere between the beating of the hands and the hush of the throat,
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Miracles are small and commonplace: a softened heart, a reconciled face,
A hand extended where it had been closed for years.
And when Eid morning comes, it is not only joy but recognition—
That the fast was not an absence but a presence, not lack but a remaking.
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The streets fill with color like a hymn in fabric; children run
With the amplified clarity of small suns; the prayer is a communal exhale.
There are gifts and new clothes, yes, but also a ledger of small mercies:
Meals shared, debts forgiven, bridges mended, hands held out.
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Ramadan is a calendar of returning—return to prayer, to family,
To community, to the needy, to the simpler measure of what matters.
It is a mirror polished each year; it is a field left fallow then sown.
It teaches the body to be aligned with mercy, the heart to measure worth
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By the expansion of compassion rather than the contraction of fear.
In its fasting we find our hungers clarified; in its nights we find
A way to live by light, to hold one another in the better story.
So let the crescent stay upon the sky a while longer,
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Let lanterns keep their slow, determined flame.
Let every table hold an extra plate, every street an extra chair,
And let strangers pass and meet and be met as if kin.
For Ramadan is not a season to be kept alone,
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But a hand held across the span of days, a shared breath by which
People remember how to be gentle, how to be just, how to be grateful.
And when the year unwinds and the crescent slips away,
The quiet lessons remain: small gestures, repaired ties,
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The steady turning toward what is enduring.
May the fast have thinned our edges only to make the heart
Longer, broader, more room for the other to enter and stay.
May the prayers we raised as a chorus keep singing quietly afterward,
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And may mercy be the continuing light we carry into every ordinary day.
Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

27/03/2026

Page number 1
Gudipadwa
On the morn when dawn unbuttons gold from sky,
A gudi rises, proud — a flag of new luck, bright.
Silk and brocade catch the first sun’s eye,
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A copper pot crowns green bamboo, fragrant and light.
Marigolds whisper like small suns in the breeze,
As homes wake to rangoli, to prayers, to ease.
Children scatter colors with giggles and paint,
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Their hands are festival-mess, small and pure.
Old stories unroll like scrolls from a saint,
Of harvests returned and fortunes sure.
Neighbors exchange sweets, tilgul offered with cheer —
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“Tilgul ghya, god god bola” — kind words near.
Paddy fields shimmer, trimmed with morning dew,
The earth breathes relief, rejoices in yield.
Farmers tip their hats to skies wide and blue,
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Counting blessings sown, trusting every field.
Coconut, sugarcane, new leaves and grain,
Simple offerings woven into hope’s refrain.
Elders fold palms, eyes soft as twilight,
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They speak of cycles, of time’s gentle bend.
Names of ancestors glide into the light,
Their lessons carried like lanterns, like friends.
Young feet dance the old rhythms across the floor,
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Feet stamping tomorrow into memory’s core.
The gudi stands sentinel: copper, silk, a crest,
Tied with a cloth as red as ripe mango flesh.
It flutters like a promise above each nest,
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A banner against sorrow, against the night’s hush.
It says: begin, begin again, thread and stitch,
Mend the torn edges of your year with joy’s rich pitch.
Sweet steam rises from pots of festive fare,
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Shrikhand and puran poli, jaggery’s warm kiss.
Lemon-laced chutneys, aromas spicy in air,
Each bite a blessing, each plate a promise of bliss.
Laughter bowls over like water from a well,
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Stories spill out, half-true and heart-felt to tell.
Bells in the temple echo bright and clear,
A cadence that sweeps old shadows away.
Prayers woven with laughter, with a single tear,
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Thanking earth, sky, kin — for another day.
Children learn the names of season and seed,
How patience and labor together succeed.
So lift your hands and lift the gudi high,
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Let its colors stitch dawn to the rest of the year.
May every soft hope find its way to the sky,
May every small fear feel love’s gentle steer.
This day is a doorway, a breath, a new song,
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Gudi Padwa: walk forward, steadfast and strong.
Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

I am thee artist of my life.

26/03/2026

Page number 1
Ramnavmi
Ramnavi, like dawn unrolled across the sleeping hills,
A steady river braided with the light of a thousand wills.
You move in quiet architecture—footfalls on ancient stone—
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A compass in the chest of those who wander far from home.
Ramnavi, with hands that mend the rifts of broken days,
You stitch the sky with patience, turn the dark to patient praise.
Your voice is not the thunder; it’s the door that gently closes,
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A lantern swung in alleys where forgotten courage grows.
Ramnavi, who learns the language of the wind and wheel,
You map the hidden highways where the timid hearts reveal.
Your eyes keep both horizon and the seed beneath the sod,
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You speak in soft commands the weary can still trust and nod.
Ramnavi, whose laughter is a tide that lifts small boats,
You teach the weary mariner how to steer by kinder notes.
In storms you are a harbor and in silence you are song;
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You hold both grief and glory, knowing both belong.
Ramnavi, who walks beside the elders and the small,
You carry their remembering like a warm and patient shawl.
Each step a poem written in the margins of the earth,
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Each hand extended pays the older debts of worth.
Ramnavi, whose story is a constellation near and wide,
You braid the tales of loss with threads of stubborn pride.
No hero’s mask, no perfect throne—just steady, open palms;
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You turn a clumsy crowd into a gentle gathering of psalms.
Ramnavi, whose courage grows where lesser hopes would fail,
You plant bright flags of meaning on the steep and rutted trail.
Not for glory, not for gold, but for the tender right
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To light another’s midnight and to keep the morning bright.
Ramnavi, who knows the names of every unclaimed dream,
You teach the lonely sparrow how to stitch its ribboned seam.
You build a bridge of footsteps so the timid can pass through,
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And on that bridge you linger, offering your hand to two.
Ramnavi, a map whose ink is both the past and yet-to-be,
You chart small acts of mercy like a careful cartography.
When doubt is close, when fear is loud, you are the quiet seam
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That joins the broken promise to the bright, unspoken dream.
Ramnavi, may your passage be a blessing on the wind,
A promise that the scattered and the certain can be twinned.
May your name be told at bedside and sung on morning roads,
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A hymn for those who travel light, for those who carry loads.
Ramnavi, in every bread you share, in every door you mend,
You are the steady testament that kindness has no end.
Walk on—your shadow leads the way for those who long to see
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That the smallest, truest courage is to love unceasingly.
- Ellina Nathaneal Murmu

I am thee artist of my life.

26/03/2026

Page number 1
Three countries war
Beneath a bruised and restless sky the three flags learn to ache,
Israel, Iran, and America — names like footprints in the wake.
Sirens stitch the midnight with a thread of broken glass,
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and every stair remembers footsteps that will never pass.
A child counts the shards of toys where sunlight used to play,
learns the grammar of an ambulance and how to pray.
A mother folds a photograph and irons silence through the day,
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keeps a radio for news that tells her nothing she can say.
Markets that once sang with bargaining now bargain with their ghosts,
spices sit like relics on shelves that miss their hosts.
Orchards keep their fruit beneath a sky that will not yield
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the small, ordinary miracles the seasons used to wield.
Television lights are funeral fires inside the living room,
repeating maps that fold in on themselves like doom.
A mosque, a synagogue, a chapel — doorways turned to hush,
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hold the same thin question: who will sweep away the dust?
Across an ocean a widow rewrites afternoons in dust,
traces names on lists and tries to keep the old, small trust.
A soldier writes in pencil on a slip of frayed-out news:
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"I saw the stars fall sideways; I kept looking for my shoes."
Language slips between the lines — Farsi, Hebrew, English thin —
they whisper the same lullabies and count the same small sins.
Flags fold into story, uniforms into ash,
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and every courthouse calendar keeps time by someone’s crash.
An old man walks the market with a hand that knows the price
of fruit and of a neighbor's laugh, of childhood and of ice.
He steps among the rubble where the baker used to sing,
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picks up a crust and offers it to anyone with rings.
There are names that go unspoken; grief is not a headline’s friend,
it multiplies in stairwells where the light will not descend.
Not every loss is counted; not every sorrow shows,
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but every emptied chair keeps proof of things we used to know.
How many lullabies before the night runs out of words?
How many mothers keep the ledger of their absent birds?
What hands will sign the papers that will turn the end to start,
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when ink cannot replace the hollow lodged inside the heart?
Once dinners mixed their spices; coriander crossed the room,
olive oil, orange peel, and tea perfumed a common gloom.
Now recipes sit quiet, jars of memory closed tight,
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and every plate becomes a map of someone out of sight.
Pigeons circle monuments that mourn their old repose,
balconies hold candles for the names nobody knows.
Telephone poles remember voices; static, then the cut,
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and every disconnected evening costs a laugh a different gut.
Children learn the geometry of rubble and of fear,
learn to count the constellations by the flares that sear.
They trade their marbles for a rationed piece of toast,
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and grandparents count years as if each one were the cost.
In classrooms chalk remembers lists of dates the wars erased,
the teachers fold their grammar into silences and pace.
In playgrounds swings move slowly, wind the only push,
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and every song is trimmed with the thin, metallic hush.
If peace is anything, it is mornings without smoke,
mothers making breakfast, someone telling jokes.
If hope survives, it walks from porch to open lane,
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from Tel Aviv to Tehran and across the salted plain.
There are postcards in an attic with edges turned to sighs,
Hebrew, Farsi, English scrawled in hand and time-bent cries.
They speak of birthdays missed, of weddings moved and stalled,
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of gardens left to season in a quiet that appalls.
What would it take — a hand, a hymn, a window left ajar,
a child's balloon ascending to forget the taste of war?
Perhaps the smallest bridge, a loaf, a shared and honest bread,
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a stranger steadying the one who bends to hide the dread.
Listen — the cities hum the same slow, sorrowed tune,
three maps of grief beneath the same forgetful moon.
Mothers stitch their lists in prayer; men light a little fire,
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and somewhere a piano practices the shape of old desire.
There are funerals that never make a single midnight show,
and names that lose their numbers as the cold winds come and go.
Not all losses have a marker; not all wounds have words,
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but every heartbeat buried is the cost of absent birds.
If treaties ever come, let them come soft-footed, slow,
not signed on trembling paper but in gardens where the olives grow.
Let children learn the difference between the thunder and the rain,
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let fathers come to table and lay down what they claim.
Until that dawn, the world counts candles, crumbs, and scars,
and whispers every evening through the same thin, hopeful stars:
that sorrow might be softened by the simple, human art
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of laying down a weapon and lifting up a heart.
May mornings come that do not bring ashes on the breeze,
may children wake to playgrounds, to the sound of simple trees.
May neighbors meet in markets and remember how to share,
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and may the air be gentle as it was before despair.
We grieve in different languages; we pray within our keys,
but sorrow is a single thread that bends us to our knees.
Let hands be folded not in grief but in the careful, quiet proof
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that life, though fragile, asks to be returned to use.
Until that day, the cities count their losses in the dark,
and mothers trace the edges of the lives that left their mark.
Listen to the quiet — beneath the rubble, under tar—
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there is a buried music wanting only light to start.
If anything can change this, it is the smallest things made brave:
a cup passed over thresholds, a blanket for the knave,
a teacher reading stories to a class that knows the cost,
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a neighbor who returns the songs the night had nearly lost.
So let the mornings come that hold no names upon the wind,
let gardens grow where children play and laughter's not a sin.
Neither flag nor bullet heals the bed where sorrow lies;
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only hands, only heartbeats, only ordinary ties.
And when the dawn is patient, let it find us at the door,
not counting out our bodies but the promises we swore.
May someone lay down sorrow like a coat upon a chair,
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and may the world, at last, remember how to simply care.
Ellina Nathanael Murmu

I am thee artist of my life.

25/03/2026

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Struggles of other Countries with three Countries War
They measured mornings in the hush between two bangs,
in the soft, impossible pause before someone says a name.
In kitchens from Tel Aviv to Tehran, a pot simmers and cools—
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and hands that once reached for menus now count mouths and loss.
A father in Haifa files a photograph under a shirt,
the edges curled like the way the sea keeps picking at the shore.
A grandmother in Isfahan folds a child's sweater into prayer,
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and in New York a tired woman watches footage until dawn blurs.
Abu Dhabi's towers glitter like a promise that forgot to keep,
and in a quiet room in Bahrain a radio trembles with each drip.
Doha holds its own hush—lamps stay lit against the dark,
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while in the far south, where old Yemen remembers longer wars,
people bury names beneath the sand and teach their children songs
that nobody will market and nobody will name.
America's maps glow blue on palms that are not used to heat,
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and someone there buys a plane ticket they cannot yet afford.
They stitch together letters with coffee stains and worry,
and wonder whom to call when the sirens climb across the screen.
The wind carries two languages and a dozen prayers to one rooftop,
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and the same moon leans over minarets and steeples as if undecided.
Olive trees whisper the history of hands that planted and replanted,
and dunes keep the slow arithmetic of footprints left behind.
There are classrooms with one fewer desk, swings that creak alone,
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and markets where the bakers measure sorrow by the pound.
A nurse in a field hospital counts the breaths she must not waste,
and names each face like someone naming a small, failing star.
Flags flap above empty chairs; medals rattle in a drawer;
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a soldier in a far desert hums the lullaby his mother taught him
and cannot remember why the tune now breaks at the end.
Across the gulf, a fisherman folds his nets and listens to the sea
as if it could tell him where the missing boats have gone.
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Letters float like bottle-caps across oceans and embargoes,
and someone in Bahrain ties a ribbon to the gate for luck.
In Abu Dhabi a candle is lit and left to burn itself to nothing,
a small beacon for a stranger who will never know the giver's name.
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In Tehran an old lover waits by a window for a shadow,
in Haifa a child presses a coin to a cracked stone and makes a wish.
In Sana'a, elders speak of younger days when bread was cheap,
and in Doha young hands count the days between patrols and prayers.
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The news repeats the same thin strings of numbers, and the numbers ache,
for numbers cannot hold the curve of a laugh or the smallness of toes.
Glass is swept into bags like promises that broke at once;
and somewhere, someone sweeps an orphan’s boot into a corner.
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There are songs that will not get sung again and photographs that will not be returned,
wedding rings left on bedside tables, and schoolbooks that never closed.
The same streetlight flickers in three different towns as though remembering a single voice,
and in each, a mother hums the same wrong poem to steady a trembling child.
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No treaty can replace the hands that build a home from scratch,
no speech can knit the quiet that enters when a father does not come back.
All the diplomats and ministers in their distant halls can write a thousand pages,
but they cannot stitch a mitten onto a child's hand or warm a forehead at night.
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Still, there are small mercies—neighbors who split the last loaf,
a baker who hides a loaf behind the sugar for someone else.
A teacher copies lessons by candlelight and slips them under doors,
and strangers share a blanket on a bus that goes nowhere and yet keeps them warm.
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The sky keeps the same indifferent stars over Abu Dhabi and Acre,
over Doha, over Tehran, over Haifa, over Washington and Sana'a.
And those stars watch as the same tender hands place candles on windowsills,
waiting—for what, they do not know—perhaps only for the morning.
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So let the poets gather the names we have not yet learned to say,
and let someone keep a ledger of small griefs like seeds to plant.
Let the children draw maps that show where playgrounds might be built,
and not where barricades separate the sand from the road again.
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If sorrow has a language, it sounds like every lullaby whispered twice,
and if peace has a shape, it will be made from the slow, patient mending
of plates and roofs and swollen, tired hearts—of stitches taken very small.
When that day comes, someone will sweep the ash into a single pile
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and set an orange tree in the place where a school once stood.
Until then, the cities keep their lamplight and their low, persistent hope;
people mend what they can, they count what they can, they grieve what they must.
In every port and every alley, a hand reaches out to another hand,
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not for flags or for borders, but for the quiet miracle of being held.
And the world will remember not the maps that men engraved in haste,
but the names of the small and ordinary who learned, despite the ruin,
to pass bread to neighbors, to carry candles into rooms that hurt,
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to whisper a single, stubborn prayer that maybe—one day—children will sleep.
Ellina Nathaneal Murmu