At the edge of all things, I stood—
Faith shattered like glass beneath war’s feet.
I was the corpse of a girl,
Breathing only out of habit,
A soul too broken to live,
Too weary to die,
Too afraid to leave a door
That led to a world dressed in filth.
I forsook the only thread that tethered me—
Art.
Music died in me,
And silence stretched like a graveyard,
Where each day was a funeral,
Each face a ghost,
Each child’s cry drowned
By the cruel chorus of bombs
And the crueler joy of those who danced on rubble,
As if grief were background noise
To their celebration.
I hated humanity.
I hated myself—for being part of it.
I wanted no more life, no more death.
Just nothing.
Then—
A violet light.
Delicate as breath on glass.
Soft as a lullaby sung by stars.
It touched my frozen heart.
And laughter—
Laughter like rain after centuries of drought—
Found its way in.
Seven men.
Seven angels clothed as humans.
Carrying mercy in their hands,
Innocence in their eyes.
They played. They joked. They laughed.
And each sound chipped away
The tomb of my despair.
The world had been ash—
Now it burned violet.
They warmed the corpse I was.
Their smiles stitched the torn seams of my soul.
They believed in joy,
And made me believe in it too.
They came like dreams and left behind warmth.
Every night, they visited the dark halls of my sleep,
And every morning,
I rose a little more alive.
I don’t know how they stayed pure
In a world stained with cruelty.
But I live now
On the breath of their beauty.
Now—
I am overwhelmed with happiness.
So full, it spills like song from my chest.
I want to write,
To sing,
To film the resurrection of my heart.
Art has returned.
Not as theory.
But as blood,
As heartbeat.
I am in love.
To the core.
A trembling woman,
Swaying like a dancer to this holy music.
Each day, I feed the fire,
Let it consume the last of my sorrow.
And I wait—
A sacrifice to love—
For their return.
May they return to me safely.
May they never lose their light.
