Ahmed moves with his house on his back,
and goes to bed, knowing
his new blue shoes will lose their sheen
beneath a pile of rubble.

Rana pours the universe
from a two-dimensional bucket.
She hasn’t forgotten her infant sister
cradled in a pool of red.

Eight-year-old Maha draws her family,
waiting—not to run to their arms,
but to wake them from slumber,
tell them the war is over.

How vain is my hunger for more here,
as countless dreams are blown to dust,
and nothing endures but shreds of hope,
displaced
amid the rubble.