I Drew a Flag with Crayons

🖋️MUHAMMED ASHIQUE T T

I drew a flag with crayons,

red like the sky when bombs fall,

black like the smoke that eats our sun,

white like the walls that echo fear,

and green… like the garden my mother once grew—

before the tanks came.

My name is Amal. It means hope.

But they say hope is dangerous here.

It sings too loud. It dreams too wide.

And sometimes,

it gets buried under rubble.

My brother was teaching me alphabets—

A for Allah,

B for Baba,

C for checkpoint…

We never reached F.

A drone came instead.

I used to think stars were pretty,

but now I wonder—

Are they eyes watching us?

Are they bombs waiting to fall?

Mama says not to fear them,

but her voice trembles like broken glass.

I asked her once,

“Why don’t we have peace?”

She kissed my forehead and said,

“Because they are afraid of your smile.”

I didn’t understand,

but I held my lips tight for days.

There’s a bird outside my window—

one wing bent,

still flying.

That’s how we are.

Torn,

but moving.

Hurting,

but singing.

And if you ever hear a lullaby from rubble,

that’s me,

humming freedom into stone,

writing poems on walls they try to erase—

with crayons,

with tears,

with the unshaken voice

of a child who still believes

the olive tree will bloom again.