Small Price

They speak of cities burning under foreign skies, Of borders drawn in ash, of strangers paying lives. They call the loss of millions something small to bear, As if a map could bleed and no one would be there. Los Angeles in smoke, San Diego in flame, Whole streets erased, while speeches stay the same. A sentence hits the air, then circles back around: How cheap can human life become when power makes the sound? They call it a small price, but who decides the cost? Who counts the homes, the names, the children lost? You can measure war in numbers, dollars, lines But you can't put a value on a human life. A small price, they say, beneath the flashing lights, But every empty doorway tells a different side. The leaders draw their lines from offices of stone, While distant families wonder if they'll make it home. The diplomats speak softly, the cameras turn away, And every word of thunder makes tomorrow less safe. Some answer with outrage, some defend the claim, Some say it's only rhetoric, just another political game. But language has a shadow, and shadows can ignite— A threat repeated loudly can become a fuse at night. And somewhere far from podiums, far from flags and screens, A mother hears the warning in the silence between. No headline tells her everything a war can take, No speech can resurrect the lives a missile makes. So before we praise the fire, before we choose the fight, Remember every city is somebody's night. And history won't care which slogan won the room It will remember who saw danger, and who let it bloom. Final Chorus Don't call it a small price when the price is someone breathing, Don't call destruction victory because the powerful are speaking. Peace may sound like weakness to a world addicted to the fight, But keeping cities standing is a victory of its own right. No nation is a number, no family is expendable When leaders talk of ashes, the consequences are inevitable.