When the sky forgets its kindness, it does not rain — it burns.

When the sky forgets its kindness,

it does not rain — it burns.

Homes that once echoed with lullabies

stand speechless, their walls torn open

like pages ripped from a family album.

Windows no longer frame sunsets;

they frame silence.

A woman stands before the ruins,

not only mourning bricks and mortar,

but the invisible architecture of memory —

the kitchen laughter, the quiet evenings,

the simple miracle of safety.

On an empty road, a small doll lies still,

its painted smile unaware

that childhood has been interrupted.

Metal is scarred, glass is shattered,

and even the wind moves carefully,

as if afraid to disturb the grief.

War does not only conquer land —

it rearranges lives.

It writes its history

in dust, in tears, in unanswered prayers.

And yet, amid the wreckage,

there remains something it fails to destroy —

the stubborn pulse of humanity,

whispering that one day

the sky will remember how to be blue again.

Rupesh Ranjan