From the ashes of war to the whispers of peace.
The clock of fate began its chime,
On a September day in shadowed time.
Smoke and sorrow filled the skies,
As truth was lost in trembling eyes.
A nation bled, the world held breath,
As war was born from whispered death.
A man named Bush, with heavy tone,
Declared the war that set the stone.
“Justice,” he said, but vengeance stirred,
And thunder answered every word.
Deserts blazed and cities fell,
Seven nations knew that hell.
From Baghdad’s dust to Kabul’s pain,
The storms of fire would not refrain.
Borders shifted, empires wept,
And mothers prayed as children slept.
Years rolled on in endless sand,
The cost of power, blood, and hand.
History remembered—etched in grief,
Of soldiers lost and stolen belief.
The Middle East, once full of grace,
Was torn apart, erased, replaced.
A legacy of war and flame,
Left nations trembling, none to blame.
Then time turned slow, the decades spun,
And rose another, different one.
A man of gold, of noise, of fame,
Who walked the world with steady aim.
No poet’s words, no statesman’s song,
But something changed—the tone grew strong.
From deals to truces, step by stride,
The peacemaker’s voice replaced the tide.
Trump, they said, with all his flair,
Would never bring calm anywhere.
But history has its secret art—
It paints with paradox of heart.
For where once war had left its mark,
Now came a flicker in the dark.
A truce between the ancient foes,
A fragile peace, the desert knows.
Hamas and Israel, hand in stay,
A breath of hope at close of day.
The guns fell quiet, if just for now,
A fragile vow, the world’s raised brow.
For in the Middle East’s deep scars,
Peace is rarer than the stars.
And those who profit from the fight,
Will never yield without a bite.
The military minds, the iron trade,
Built their empires where blood was laid.
The industry of endless fear,
That feeds on pain, year by year.
But still, a moment stood apart—
A flicker born of human heart.
Could peace endure where wars began?
Could mercy outlast every plan?
The kings and clerics, east and west,
All wondered if this was the test.
A deal, a truce, a single breath,
Defying prophets of certain death.
History in the making, here,
Not born of might, but something clear—
That even after towers fall,
And countless kingdoms hear the call,
There comes a day when swords grow still,
When hearts, not armies, show their will.
Let prayers rise from every land,
Let children dream, let mothers stand.
Let soldiers lay their burdens down,
And peace at last wear her golden crown.
For this is not an easy peace—
It fights for breath, it begs release.
Yet in this moment, brief, divine,
The world reclaims its fragile spine.
From warmonger’s fire to peacemaker’s light,
Two histories met in day and night.
And somewhere deep, beyond the pain,
A whisper grows—peace might remain.
So let us pray this truth shall stay,
Let dawn outshine the scars of gray.
For if this truce endures its test—
The Middle East may finally rest.
