California And Gaza Crises

California and Gaza—
two faces of sorrow, 
one birthed by nature's hand, 
the other by human intent.

In California, flames rise, 
devouring forests, swallowing homes, 
the air thick with ash and grief.
Nature's fury, 
yet laced with human folly: 
a climate untamed, 
lands mismanaged, 
whispers of a world unraveling.
Still, hearts unite—
to rescue, to rebuild, 
to cradle the wounded earth
and each other.
Bucket by bucket, hope is lifted; 
the soil remembers care.

But in Gaza, the fires burn colder, 
sharper, crueler.
Not nature's chaos, but man's design—
bombs raining on cradles, 
walls crumbling into dust, 
lives splintered into echoes.
Here, no soothing hands arrive—
only the unyielding march of destruction, 
only the cold aim of snipers, 
who see not children, but targets.
Dreams are bartered for survival, 
and silence roars louder
than the shattering of stone.

One fire begs for water, 
for tools, for healing hands.
The other demands justice, 
an end to chains forged in hatred, 
to oppression's ceaseless grip.

Two crises, two worlds apart.
One, we fight with compassion; 
the other, with the turning away—
of eyes too weary, too afraid
to meet the truth.

Oh, what divides us so? 
The fire in California cries for mercy, 
its wounds soothed by hope's balm.
The fire in Gaza cries for humanity, 
its anguish fed by indifference.
Both burn, but one is tended; 
the other, 
left to consume all.

Can we not see? 
Both fires glow red, 
both flames singe the soul, 
both ash falls the same
on the brow of the earth.
What one demands, 
the other shares: 
a hand outstretched, 
a voice lifted against despair, 
a light that promises
the flames will die down, 
and never rise again.

MyKoul