When the Gloved Hand Waved Goodbye

The servers hum, collating grief in clean, numeric rows; Sudan is starving in the dark—a twenty-year eclipse— While Gaza wraps its smallest bones in shrouds of sudden dust. In Kyiv, winter holds its breath; in Mandalay, walls crack open And Delhi gasps beneath a dome stripped bare of ancient shade. Now Michael flickers on the screen, a blockbuster of ghosts, A cinematic moonwalk smoothing out the human clay. He begged us once to heal the world, to face the man in the glass. We buy the ticket, hum the peace, and weep inside the dark, Then step out to the treeless heat, and let the embers catch. The servers hum. The rows grow long. No one logs off.