The day the planes fell,

more than buildings collapsed.

Trust.

Innocence.

The belief that tomorrow

would resemble today.

Fear learned to point.

Borders tightened.

Names became unsafe.

Skin became evidence.

Children learned how to be searched

before they learned how to be safe.

War followed.

Endless.

Unclean.

Cities erased.

Mothers counting breaths.

Fathers fading into photographs.

Peace spoken

in the language of bombs.

Violence scattered—

onto trains, into crowds,

through concerts, mosques, churches,

markets and classrooms.

Always the same question:

How many more?

Some deaths mourned loudly.

Others buried quietly.

As if some lives

weighed more.

Still—

there is Bondi.

Sunlight interrupted.

Salt on skin mid-moment.

Sirens where laughter lived.

Waves washing over grief

too fresh to name.

Violence has failed us.

All it leaves are graves,

ghosts,

children who flinch

and call it normal.

Dialogue is slower.

Messier.

But love—real love—

the stubborn kind—

is the only thing

that stops the bleeding.

For all our children:

the sky fell once.

It doesn’t have to keep falling.

Let us listen.

Let us choose love.