Shells at soldiers’ feet.
And we are shells,
membranes filled with empty promises.
“There will be peace.”
But how come there’s war?
A war we didn’t choose.
A war nobody wants to win or lose.
Nobody wants a war.
Shells in my sister’s hair.
How come the future
seems like a long-forgotten past?
Shells in my granny’s hair didn’t blast.
Screams that no one hears.
Outcasts can’t find a helping hand.
We’re zeroed out
by those with power and a voice.
The war was not our choice.
Eggshells that we walk on —
in the media,
in private messages,
in school.
Whistleblowing is becoming cool.
Rebels coming out of their shells,
protesting on the streets
to be dragged away and locked up;
speaking out online
to be sentenced in hopes they shut up.
Generations doomed to live with shell shock.
Fatherless children.
Sonless parents.
Sea shells untouched by naval mines
as empty reminders of empty promises.