Fault Lines and First Responders

The ground split open like a gasp,  

a city's breath breaking in terror.  

Walls swayed, knees buckled,  

and silences devoured the air whole.  

People pressed palms to chest,  

searching for the rhythm of survival.  

Children cried into the sharpness  

of shattered rooms and broken arms.  

The quake did not ask who,  

did not care for names or prayers.  

It ruptured through homes,  

leaving echoes in place of laughter.  

Then came the red cross of hope,  

a fleet of hands and hurried hearts.  

Bandages unfolded like offerings,  

medicine spilled into veins of chaos.  

Through ragged streets and dusted grief,  

they carried the weight of relief.  

Sometimes, salvation arrives quietly,  

wrapped in gauze and vials of light.  

Even in the darkest ruptures,  

humanity finds a way to mend.