I am not a Number

The wind howls through hollow chests, bones rattling like dying breath. Tiny hands reach for a vanishing dream, but hope is a shadow, silent, unseen.

The sky once blue, now black with ash, where wheat should rise, the vultures crash. The fields are graves, the rivers dry, and hunger wears the face of a child’s cry.

A mother whispers to lips turned gray, “Sleep, my love, let hunger fade.” But sleep is cruel, and dreams betray, for dawn still comes, but food won’t stay.

They watch, they write, they turn away, counting deaths like passing days. For what is a life to those who feast, while we are swallowed by famine’s beast?

The hunger is not just of the body, it is the soul’s cry, a call for justice, for mercy, for a reason why. We are not just a number, a statistic in a book, we are lives shattered by war’s ruthless look.

The hands that once sowed in fertile ground, now beg for scraps, with no help to be found. And still they turn their heads and write their reports, ignoring the cries that come from the courts.

Oh, mercy, if you hear our call, send rain, send bread, send light at all. Before the last voice fades to none, before the silence is the only tell of what’s done.

We are not just numbers, not faceless masses, we are hearts that beat, with lives that pass us. I was a child, I was a dream, now I am a ghost, lost in the scream.

Do not forget me if I am among the dead. Do not let my name drown in the silence, buried beneath the weight of war, lost in the sea of the fallen.

I was here. I had a life, a story, a voice.

I was the child chasing sunlight through shattered streets, the laughter that once danced between broken walls. I was the warmth in my mother’s arms,

I was hunger before the famine took me, a heartbeat before the silence claimed me. I was a dream stitched in light, until war came and unstitched my sky.

They count us like numbers on a fading page, erase us with ink that bleeds into stone. But I am not a statistic. I am not nameless. I had hands that once held love, feet that ran toward a future stolen from me.

I had a voice—did you hear it?

Did you listen before the bombs swallowed my words?

Did you see me before the rubble claimed my body?

If I am among the dead, remember me. Say my name so the wind may carry it, so it lingers where I can no longer stand. Let it echo in the spaces they tried to silence.

When you scroll past the news of my death, when my name appears as just another number on your phone screen, don't let it be the end of my story.

Say my name when you read the statistics, when you flick through the endless feed on your phones of lives reduced to nothing but cold digits. I was more than that. I was human. I was one of you.

Say my name.

For I was here.

I was human.

I was never just a number.

Aura 🍉

Fri, 5am ,The morning that never came