Where Children Still Dream: A Poem for gaza

Where Children Still Dream

(by Hammad Khan)

Somewhere in a city wrapped in dust,

A little boy still traces stars with his finger.

Not in the sky—but on the wall beside his bed,

Where a crack now cuts through yesterday’s laughter.

His sister hums a song she half-remembers,

A melody their mother once whispered

Before the night stole sleep,

And sirens became their lullaby.

They build paper boats from old homework,

Let them float across puddles by broken sidewalks,

The world scrolls on,

But they are paused—in time, in place,

Between a memory and a morning

That hasn't come yet.

Imagining oceans

That don’t know war.

Their dreams are not political.

They don’t carry maps or borders.

They dream of cake,

Of soccer balls,

Of schoolbags filled with sharpened pencils

Instead of stories too heavy for any child to carry.

And still—

A smile.

Still—

A hand held out to help a bird with a broken wing.

Still—

Laughter, sometimes, like sunlight through a crack in the wall.

This poem is not about sides.

It is not about blame.

It is about children—

Who do not choose where they are born,

Yet still choose to be kind,

To imagine peace,

To dream in color when the world turns grey.

So let us speak gently of Gaza.

Let us write not with rage,

But with reverence—

For those who carry hope like a candle

Through the longest night.