While Monsters Scream

[u/Party-Cup-4173]

The world holds its breath like a child beneath a collapsing roof, as monsters raise their glasses, bloodied fingerprints smearing the crystal.

They call it peace. They call it strength. But the ground knows the weight of fallen voices. The soil remembers names no headline mourns.

Smoke does not reason. Missiles do not weep. And yet in polished halls, the architects of thunder grin like wolves who’ve dressed their feast as prophecy.

Somewhere, a father is digging a cradle out of rubble. Somewhere, a mother wraps her child in prayers stitched with ash. The sky is full of debris and defiance, and still— the monsters toast each other’s shadows.

What is history if not the echo of men applauding their own fire?

What is power if not a theatre where silence is made to kneel?

And yet, in the quiet between bombs, a child hums a lullaby she does not understand.

That note— fragile, broken, pure— carries more truth than any of their speeches.

It is not the scream we remember, but the breath held hoping they will stop.