Sunset & Sunrise Over Gaza

The sunset in Gaza bleeds across the horizon, a sky torn between fire and ash, its colors too vivid to bear witness without pain. It drips scarlet and gold, as though the heavens themselves weep for the ground below, where life is snuffed out as swiftly as the fading light.

The sun descends like a broken promise, heavy with the weight of innocence lost. Each ray stretches across the land like a trembling hand reaching for something already gone-peace, safety, humanity. But the earth answers only with silence, its voice buried beneath rubble and grief.

The sea, a witness to countless sunsets, mirrors the sky's anguish. Waves lap against the shore, whispering secrets of despair carried from the cries of those unseen, unheard. The horizon becomes a line blurred, a boundary that no longer separates light from dark, just as the boundaries of justice and cruelty dissolve into indifference.

In Gaza, the sunset does not herald the calm of evening; it is a curtain drawn over a stage of unending suffering. The colors of twilight do not soothe but burn, mirroring the fires that consume homes, dreams, and futures. It is not a transition from day to night but a descent into deeper shadows, where even stars seem too ashamed to shine.

Here, the setting sun feels like a slow, deliberate extinguishing of hope, each second dragging on like the unbearable weight of a siege. The horizon, once a promise of tomorrow, becomes a reminder of the world's complicity in a today drenched in blood.

In Gaza, the sunset is not a metaphor for endings but for the persistence of human resilience against a backdrop of unspeakable loss. It whispers of a people who, even in the face of genocide, refuse to let their light vanish without a trace, their spirit etched into the sky for all who dare to look.