The Morning He Left

By Samrah Haider

I woke to sunlight, soft and pale,

A bird’s song riding the morning gale.

The table stood empty, his chair askew,

His coffee cup cold, untouched, and blue.

Father left before I awoke,

No goodbye whispered, no kind words spoke.

He had a job, not one of war,

Just fixing things behind a store.

But here, in this land where wars collide,

Peace is a dream we’re denied.

Explosions steal the night from day,

And fear is the price children pay.

He said he’d be back by the evening light,

But the sun sank red, and so did night.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to years,

My world now painted in quiet tears.

Father, Did you forget?

The doll we made, the promises set?

The kite we flew on that hill of green,

Before war devoured what might have been?

Days turned to weeks, and weeks into years,

Each moment drips with unanswered fears.

I’ve tried to be strong, to hold on tight,

But doubt now shadows the fading light.

They say you might sleep beneath the stone,

Or wander lands I’ve never known.

But I still wait, with hopeful eyes,

Scanning the road, the smoky skies.

What keeps you away? What holds you back?

The answers I seek trail a lonesome track.

All that soothes my weary heart,

Is the nightingale’s song—a fragile art.

War isn’t fair, it takes what’s dear,

And leaves behind just grief and fear.

It turns a home into hollow ground,

And silences love without a sound.

It's Monday morning, I'm worried—have you eaten?

The hours stretch on, but my hope's not beaten.

Will there be a tomorrow, or is it a dream?

Without you, my world is torn at the seam.

I long for mornings as they were,

Your humming voice, the coffee stir.

Now silence answers every plea—

Oh, Father, come back to me.

But in this place, where war makes rules,

We’re pawns, we’re puppets, we’re played as fools.

Yet still I sit by the windowpane,

Waiting for you, through joy or pain.

By Samrah Haider