Dark loves the silence,
For she holds beauty in her palms.

The Moon, her servant,
Spinning gracefully on an empty stage,
Tendons tightening into
Points only dancers could hold.
Time resides in her movements,
Fluid and gentle,
But like a young boy,
Tripping over bumps and leaving
Ripples in his skin.

The stars, her maidens,
Burn in her court,
Allowing themselves to be watched
In bewilderment,
Now the muses of artists
Who find divinity in the
Sparkling of her eyes.

Silence who drowns
Out the wails
Of spirits when spilt blood
Is trampled into dirt fields.
She watches it,
The crimson flag held in solidarity
With the violence of us men.
Us beasts.

Yet still, when we were
Haunted by the phantoms of
Our own sin, she offered us peace,
Quieting the noises we created,
And blessing us, for the briefest of moments,
With a world hushed enough
That we could breathe.

Silence does not owe us her pity.
But she is kind enough to offer it anyway.

Iman Monnoo is 13 years old and in the eighth grade at Lahore Grammar School in Pakistan. If no one has seen her for the past half hour, sheʼs most likely in the alcove of her room, engrossed between the covers of an Agatha Christie novel!

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