All Victims Are Equal

All victims are equal.
But none are more equal than others.

But you, my brother,
clutch your book of promises,
press its cracked leather to your chest
as if pages could still the bleeding earth.
You call the wound a covenant,
you measure grief in acres and borders,
as though dust were destiny.

And you, my sister,
kneel among the ashes,
cupping the smoke as prayer,
naming every flame a prophet.
Your cries echo in the ruins,
yet in your hands, fire grows wings,
and vengeance learns to sing.

Brother, sister—
your voices clash like iron gates.
You argue over shadows,
counting the bones of strangers,
blind to the way blood itself
knows no language,
no flag,
no side.

I stand between you,
neither priest nor soldier,
only a witness with empty hands.
I see the graves—
all leveled,
all quiet,
all waiting for names we have forgotten.

All victims are equal.
But none are more equal than others.

But you, my beloved,
you choose the lesser road—
to weigh sorrow on a scale,
to lift one coffin higher than the next.
And in that choosing,
you lose yourself.

Yet still, the wind carries your cries.
Yet still, the earth swallows your fury.
And still, I whisper to you both:
the candle burns the same,
whether it is lit for brother,
or sister,
or stranger in the street.