Letters to a Future That Won’t Listen

Dear tomorrow,

We don’t know if you’re real,

but we write to you anyway —

with broken pens

and borrowed paper

and hands that still shake

from what today has done.

We send you these words

wrapped in silence,

in sorrow,

in the ashes of our cities

and the lullabies we hum

to keep ourselves alive.

We tell you of the children

who dream in bunkers,

and the mothers

who grow gardens

beside the graves.

Of boys who carry bricks

instead of books,

and girls who stitch sunlight

into torn sleeves.

We write about the birds,

still singing —

how even in this world,

something dares to be free.

How hope is not a fire,

but a flicker

that survives the wind.

You may not hear us.

You may never come.

You may be

just a myth

our hearts invented

to stay breathing.

Still, we write.

Because someone once wrote to us.

And their words kept us warm

for one more night.

So take this letter,

folded in grief,

sealed with dust,

and lined with a love

that never learned to give up.

Yours,

Even now,

Even here,

Even if.