The Light Between Bombs

There is a kind of quiet

that comes after sirens —

not peace,

but something that holds its breath

and listens.

In that silence,

a kettle hums on a broken stove.

A woman pours tea

with hands that still remember

what comfort tastes like.

A boy kicks a dented ball

through a street of dust and bone.

He laughs.

Louder than the ruin.

In a shattered room,

two lovers touch foreheads,

counting each heartbeat

like it might be the last —

but isn’t.

Not yet.

Even in war,

the wind still moves the laundry.

A songbird still forgets

what gunfire means

and sings anyway.

We name these moments

like stars —

not to map the dark,

but to survive it.

Because beauty

doesn’t wait for permission.

It breaks through.

Softly.

Fiercely.

Like the light between bombs