Gaza bleeds — pain, anguish, and heartbreak echo through the ongoing humanitarian catastrophe Its people offer their souls for the homeland they’ve always proudly carried in their hearts

In a time when wounds bleed without bandage, the sun rose timidly from behind the cloud of fear—like a mother, anxious for her children, gently parting the shadows. It was no ordinary sun. Its rays were spun from the heartbeats of the weary, and its warmth came not with brilliance, but with quiet mercy. It moved softly across the sky’s edge, as though careful not to disturb the sorrow etched into every face.

With its delicate threads, the sun sketched a flicker of hope upon the ruins—on homes reduced to ash, and on dreams that perished before they could stand. It seemed to whisper, "I am still here. Though darkness lingers, I endure—an immortal witness." Its warmth didn’t blaze; it wept. It came as a tender tear across the brows of the grieving, sharing in their mourning without uttering a single word.

Each golden beam it cast told a quiet tale—of a soul that resisted, a mother who kept vigil, a child who scribbled his name on the wall of life. The sun became a mirror reflecting the fatigue of the earth, yet still capable of dressing the wounds with light. From the balconies of sorrow, it spun strands of defiant glow—threads of light that challenged death itself, patching the heavens with a hope that refused to age.

Before such blazing silence, even tears lost their voice. The weary turned their eyes to the sun, as though begging for a divine reply. And with each new dawn, she wrote across the horizon a quiet promise: "Every wound, no matter how long it aches, will one day shine." She was the sun, yes—but more than that. She was the aching heart of the world when it clenched, and the last voice of life when all others fell still.