The Market Place
By Teza (CDM)
The market place— Before the sun hit its zenith, Was a sanctuary of breath and sound. The sharp cry of a street-food vendor, The silver chime of coins Against the bottom of a tin cup. “Come, buy from us!” “The fish are shimmering fresh!” “The fruit is honey-sweet!” These choruses of the trade Wove a tapestry of life Down the length of the street.
A child, Shifting on small feet before a stall, Eyes bright with a glass-like luster, Whispers, “Mother… I want this.” As poverty climbs like a vine And coins grow sparse as rain in drought, The mothers—though their hearts are full And their purses empty— Stroke a small head with a trembling hand: “Another time, my love,” Their voices soft as silk.
Before the toy shop, A small hand tugs a sleeve, Longing for a plane made of plastic and dreams. A mother grips her wallet tight, White-knuckled and weary, Coaxing her child toward tomorrow, Promising a gift that the future might hold. The warmth of a neighbor’s greeting, the ring of honest laughter— The humble, quiet lives of the Golden Land. The sound of souls Girding themselves to walk through one more day.
But then— To unmake it all, A shadow fell From the hollow of the sky.
In a single heartbeat, The plea for a snack fell silent. The longing for a toy vanished. The chime of the silver coins Was swallowed by the wind. The cry of “Come, buy!” Was severed mid-breath, An unfinished sentence of life.
In its place— The jagged shriek of agony, The frantic, hollow weeping of the terrified, The thunder of a world ending in despair, The raw, red prayer for help. A crimson tide Bled into the dust of the market row.
The street that woke in motion Was stilled Into a frozen silence. The child who hungered for a sweet, The child who reached for a toy— Now, They have no voice. Their small hands have forgotten how to move. Their eyes, still open, Remain as a question etched in the earth: Why? Oh, why?
A market row Was never a theater of war. But a soulless strike from the air Tore these ordinary lives From the fabric of the world, And shredded them to ghosts. The vibrant echoes of the living Are now but a heavy shroud Laid across the pages of history.
A market row Was never a theater of war. It is a place of the people, Held sacred and protected By the Geneva Conventions. Hands that carry no steel Cannot be named the enemy. Bodies that wear no khaki Cannot be called a target.
This is— The desecration of Distinction, The blurring of the soldier and the soul. A betrayal of Proportionality, Where military gain is weighed against The slaughter of the innocent. A violation of the Protection of Civilians, The vow that the helpless shall not be hunted.
For this, International Humanitarian Law Has a name that tastes of ash: “War Crime.”
The blood upon the market stones Is no longer a headline for the morning; It is the ironclad weight of evidence. History shall write it in ink that does not fade. Human rights scrolls shall bear the mark. And the halls of the high courts Shall one day echo with these names.
The three letters—ICC— Are not a distant thunder; They are the lightning that follows The arc of justice. Accountabilityis not a politician’s breath; It is the final, inevitable reckoning. Universal Jurisdiction Is a power that knows no border— A declaration that guilt Cannot hide within the cage of a country.
The voices have been hushed, But the records shall shout. The truth may be buried, But the evidence is immortal. This day cannot be sung as a “battle.” It must be carved into the stone as: “The calculated slaughter of the many.” “The defiant breaking of International Law.” “A War Crime.”
Justice may not arrive with the dawn, But time Stands as a witness in the shadows.
The market row Was never a theater of war. But it has become the hallowed ground Where the long walk of justice begins— The blood-stained proof, The altar of a War Crime.