One moment we are joyfully at play,
a group of boys, laughter soaring like kites,
not a care in the world, just the ball between our feet,
dreaming of dinner, of spices and warmth,
of our mothers’ voices calling us home,
as the sun dips low, casting shadows of youth.
But in the blink of an eye, the sky shifts,
the laughter dissolves into a harsh silence—
a distant rumble, then a shriek of steel,
and we are running,
like Olympians racing for breath,
the prize not a medal, but life itself,
the path ahead fraught with fear and fire.
From a game of joy to a race against death,
we sprint through the dust, through memories,
the echoes of our innocence trailing behind,
our hearts pounding like drums in the chaos,
as we dodge shadows that threaten to swallow us whole.
In the shelters and camps, we find ourselves,
lost children bearing the weight of survival,
the brutal truth that gnaws at our resolve—
how cruelly the world can twist a simple game,
how swiftly joy can turn into a frantic flight,
as the losers, in this race, are swept away,
into a death so brutal one would not wish it
on the fiercest of foes.
Yet here we stand,
in this moment where the game
becomes a race,
a fleeting reminder of what was and what is—
we are boys still, still dreaming of fields,
of laughter echoing against the sky,
still chasing the ball,
even as we run for our lives.
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