blood-stained hand-me-downs

words | aleeza adnan illustrations | eman peri

He asked, “Where is war?” Scattered, puzzle pieces of the world Knife-deep cuts from paper-thin maps Red drops from my wounded hand transcend Until the whole map is coated in bloodshed

He listens, as memories of cruelty glisten How stone statues of soldiers glorify stone-hearted leaders And kings make the world their own Refuse to share their throne, Sacrifice pawns and sleep in nailed beds till dawn, Kill off the serfs and commoners, Send out the swords and guns, the ships and boats, But what return are only the souls and ghouls As they become drunk on our blood And frolic as jokers in the parties they host Until they become leaders only to ghosts

Leaders escape censure and their acts are blurred As countries censor newspaper clippings and crystal radios While the loudest cannon bolts remain unheard And decade-long battles take up five lines of history books When those who mattered die by the smallest piece of matter When disputes settle at battleground despite hope for common ground Because knives have never cut water, they only release ripples So as our Earth ends wars, there will always be more

But the weak shall not follow laws made by the elite After the gold from our hearts was stolen to make their crown They cannot expect us, soldiers, to bow down Because when the bullets run out and cannons are sound The prisoners of war become prisoners of mind Satiating their wanderlust in a perished world Walking for miles, trapped in exile As the home of the brave makes their most loyal citizens Homeless in this very way

His wide-eyed gaze looked up at my face As he asked, “But will you come home?” I said, “I hope so.” But leaving only my footprints behind the door, And an extra pair of boots in the drawer That became the last time I ever saw you Until your tiny feet eventually grew And my blood-stained hand-me-downs Were passed down to you

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