History of Sorts

They grew not in gardens,
nor fields brushed by spring,
but in the hush between heartbeats,
where grief has taken wing.

Each one, a tender blossom —
a smile just barely sown,
a laugh that caught the morning,
a dream not fully grown.

They plucked them from the sunlight,
before they knew the rain,
before they tasted birthdays,
or danced away the pain.

Petals crushed by hatred’s hand,
colors blurred by fear,
roots still curled in slumber,
never waking here.

Yet somewhere in the silence,
beyond the reach of years,
they bloom in sacred gardens,
watered by our tears.

A million buds, and half again —
too many to forget,
each one a name unspoken,
a song not finished yet.

And so we plant remembrance,
and whisper through the hours:
the world was robbed of children —
the world still owes them flowers.