Bread for the Forgotten

They stand in lines of endless sand,

Empty bowls in trembling hands.

Children stare with hollow eyes,

Too weak to scream, too numb to cry.

The streets are dust, the air is dry,

No birds remain to grace the sky.

A mother breaks her final crust,

Praying to God, in God she trusts.

“Ya Allah,” she whispers, voice so thin,

“Have we not bled enough within?

Have we not given tears as rain?

Why must our wombs still birth this pain?”

A boy with ribs like fragile glass,

Searches the dirt for crumbs to grasp.

His shadow bends beneath the heat,

His tiny feet have no retreat.

There was a time when olives grew,

When markets sang in colors true.

But war has turned our fields to stone,

And hunger carves through flesh and bone.

We do not ask for gold or fame,

We do not seek to carve a name.

We only wish for one warm meal,

A simple bread, a chance to heal.

And yet the world stays blind, deaf, still,

Its silence louder than the kill.

But even in this darkened place,

We search for crumbs of mercy’s grace.

So feed us, Lord, or take us near,

For only You can end this fear.

Let not Your people fade away,

Let hunger’s curse not stay this way.

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