Still Life in Wartime

Twilight from our window feels deceptively still. The world outside this glass is bleeding, and yet here, the sky turns gold and lavender as if nothing is wrong. We wait. We watch. We hold our breath. This beauty doesn’t comfort anymore - it accuses. How can the sun set so peacefully when homes are falling, when children are buried under names we can’t pronounce fast enough?

Life has paused. Every plan, every dream, every “tomorrow” is now just after the war ends. Even this soft pink glow feels heavy.

Wrote the following as I watched the sun set…

Still Life in Wartime

From our bedroom window,
the sky performs its nightly grace,
rose and lilac, silk and flame,
as if no child lies in rubble’s embrace.

The sea exhales a quiet breeze,
the streetlights blink in amber rows,
but peace is just a hollow shell
when somewhere else the shrapnel grows.

We call this calm but calm is false,
a holding breath, a tightened chest.
The sunset doesn’t heal the wound,
it only makes the grief compress.

So let the twilight keep its show
we’ll sit and wait, too tense to weep.
This beauty now is just a pause
between this nightmare, dark and deep.

~ Ishi