In Gaza’s dawn, little Yara wakes to cries, Her window shattered, smudged with darkened skies. Her brother Jamil hunts for bread at dawn— Their mother’s lullaby is gone and torn. Fatima counts the stars that once were bright, Now bomb‐flash shards extinguish all her light. She hides beneath a table—hands on ears— While distant thunder feeds her deepest fears. Omar clutches teddy, singed around the seams, It smells of smoke; it trembles in his dreams. He asked his father, “Why the ground is gone?” His father wept and said he does not know—and on They walk through alleys where the ghosts still tread, Where children’s laughter lies among the dead; They step on stones that once were kitchen tiles, Their footsteps hollow, echoing through miles. In school that morning, Salim raised his hand, To ask his teacher why there’s no safe land. But dust was in her eyes before she could reply, And Salim felt the world collapse inside. Layla’s birthday came with no small cake, No candles lit, no joyful song to make. Her dress is torn, her shoes are coated gray, Her gifts are memories of happier days. Yet when the moon drifts past the cracked‐open sky, They snatch a breath, they do not say goodbye. Within each heart a stubborn light persists, Though darkness looms, they rise up from the mists. Forgotten children, you name the wounds you bear— The hunger in your bellies, the weight of despair; You carry ashes where once gardens grew, But still you dare to hope, still dream anew. May our world reshape its hardened hands to heal, May your scars be seen, your suffering be real. One day may laughter lift off from your lips, And peace, unbroken, return to your fingertips.