Maq Masi Blog

(A cry from beneath the wreckage—unignorable, eternal.)

I am the question
buried under the weight of your answers—
the one you silenced with fire,
the voice smothered in dust.

My body is a ruin,
my breath a ragged hymn,
yet still, I whisper:

Why do your hands build only graves?
Why does your peace taste like poison?

I am the child who never learned to count
but knows the numbers of the dead.
I am the mother who birthed hope,
then buried it with her own hands.

The bombs rewrite my history,
the smoke erases my name—
but my question remains,
lodged in the throat of the world:

When will you stop killing God in us?
When will you see we were never your enemy?

I am the question
that outlives the rubble.
I am the wound
that refuses to scar.

Hear me.
Hear me.
Or become me.

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