The Birds Had Stopped Singing

My mother once told me
that when the war was over,
when the last bomb had fallen
and the last bullet had been fired,
when the last scream had ended,
she heard the birds singing.

And only then, she said,
did she realize
they had stopped singing long ago.

How beautiful that must feel—
the moment when war becomes peace,
when silence turns into melody.

I suppose this is something similar.

Only there are no bullets here,
no bombs, no blood, no screams.
There is only silence.

And I never noticed before
how loud it could be.

Now it is everywhere.
Silence is deafening.

Maybe somewhere inside it
a flower will bloom.
Maybe a bird will be born.
Maybe a new world is already
quietly forming.

But for now,
I will sit with the silence
the way I once sat with grief.

I will let it stay
for as long as it needs to.
I will not rush it.
I will be patient.

My heart was a war zone
for far too long.

Now it is asking to be mended.

For honesty.
For time.
For compassion.
For presence.

The silence is heavy.

But the song will come again.