The Book Of Unwritten Laws.

Do not ask me for the sunrise.

I have seen what wakes before the light:

The father counting coins for his daughter’s price,

The mother is learning to swallow her own fright.

The world does not begin with birdsong.

It begins with the small arithmetic of survival:

How many breaths can a bruised rib hold?

How many prayers before a god turns feral?

I. The First Law: Hunger Has No Shame

Watch the boy whose teeth are falling out

Not from age, but from the sugar diet

Of the rich man’s trash. He does not shout.

He has learned that the strong are never quiet

About their strength, but the weak must whisper.

He steals a bruised banana. The shopkeeper’s son

Breaks his wrist with a stick. A bystander’s sister

Turns away. This is not the violent one —

This is Tuesday. This is the ordinary clock

Ticking in the blood of every block

Where rent is paid in tolerance for pain.

The boy will learn to walk with a different strain.

He will not cry. He will not tell.

The world has built a very practical hell.

II. The Second Law: Justice Has a Price Tag

In the courthouse, the judge adjusts his watch.

The man who assaulted three children walks because

The father of one child could not afford

The lawyer who knew how to twist the word

“Consent” into a ribbon for a gift.

The women in the gallery do not lift

Their eyes. They have seen this dance.

The man smiles. He will commit it more.

Outside, the mother stands with a cardboard sign:

He took my daughter’s childhood. Now she is nine

And does not speak. Where is the law?

A policeman tells her she is causing a flaw

In the flow of traffic. Move along.

This is the music of the strong’s long song.

And the daughter? She sits in a room of locked doors.

She has built a country inside the floorboards.

She has learned that adults are just larger children

With better shoes and worse religions.

She will grow. She will learn to perform desire.

She will burn her own self on a private fire.

And no one — no one — will ever know the smell

Because the world has a story it likes to tell:

Things get better. Justice comes. Just wait.

But the teeth marks on herself are not a debate.

III. The Third Law: Charity Is a Mirror for the Giver

The billionaire builds a school in the village.

He cuts the ribbon. The cameras film the pillage

Of dignity as the children sing a song

He does not understand, but pretends is long

Enough to cover the factory he owns

Where their parents’ fingers are sewing bones

To fabric for twelve hours at half a wage.

The school has no toilets. The children age

Into the same mill. But the plaque on the wall

Says “Donated in Gratitude for All”

That the billionaire gave. And he gave. He gave

The promise of a future that became a grave

With windows. And the village claps because

What else is hunger supposed to do? Applause.

It is cheaper than bullets. Compliance is a meal.

The world has taught the broken how to kneel.

IV. The Fourth Law: Tenderness Is a Weapon

She loved him. That was her first mistake.

She thought his hands were only for her sake.

But at 2 AM, when the neighbors sleep,

His hands learn other languages. They keep

A dictionary written on her ribs:

Worthless. Ugly. Whose. You make me do this.

She learns to walk without making a sound.

She learns which floorboards creak. She has found

That silence is a room with no windows.

She tells the doctor she fell down the stairs.

The doctor nods. The doctor’s own wife wears

Long sleeves in summer. They understand each other.

The cruelty is not the fist. The cruelty is the mother

Who tells her daughter marriage is forever.

The cruelty is the priest who says “whatever

What happens in the home is God’s design.”

The cruelty is that no one draws a line

Until the body is discovered in a bag.

Then they say “She seemed so happy. What a drag

That she left us so suddenly.” They never ask

Why her smile was a complicated mask

With a broken strap.

V. The Fifth Law: The Innocent Are Always the Currency

There is a war. There is always a war.

The general needs a new car. The poor

Need to believe their suffering has meaning.

So the bombs fall on a school. The cleaning

Of the rubble takes three days. The children’s names

Are listed as collateral. The games

They used to play — hopscotch, tag, pretend —

Are now a new verb meaning “to end.”

A soldier films himself laughing over a body

So small that the word corpse seems almost naughty.

He sends it to his girlfriend. She sends a heart emoji.

This is the century. This is the slow moji

Of horror. And the news calls it “conflict”

Because massacre would make the viewers sick

Before the commercial break for soda.

The dead child’s mother is now a coder

Of grief. She writes the algorithm of ash.

Her other children learn to dodge, to dash,

To calculate which alley has the least blood.

They are seven and four, and they understand mud

‎Better than mathematics. And the general

‎Retires to a villa. He is sentimental

‎About the troops. He names a street after the battle.

‎The street leads to a mall. The cattle

‎Of consumers buy their sneakers on the ground

‎Where a four-year-old’s skull was once found

‎Still wearing a barrette shaped like a butterfly.

‎The butterfly is now a brand. And why?

‎Because the world has an appetite for forgetting.

‎Because the past is a debt that is always betting

‎On our short memories. Because we prefer

‎The plaque to the wound. The noun to the verb.

‎VI. The Sixth Law: You Are Not Exempt

‎‎You who read this. You with your clean hands

‎And your horror that feels like moral stands.

‎You are not different. You are the same.

‎You scroll past famine to a cat’s silly name.

‎You donate ten dollars to feel the glow

‎Of goodness, then forget the refugee’s slow

‎Drowning in the Mediterranean. You vote

‎For the politician whose coat is a coat

‎Of promises he will not keep. You say

‎”Someone should do something” — then look away.

‎Your cruelty is not the monster’s claw.

‎Your cruelty is the space inside your jaw

‎That closes when the homeless man asks for change.

‎Your cruelty is the comfortable, the strange

‎Distance you keep between your life and theirs.

‎You are not evil. You are just the stairs

‎They have to climb, and you are standing still.

‎That is the worst cruelty. The lack of will

‎Dressed up as self-care. As boundaries. As I

‎Have my own problems. But when the children cry

‎In the factory that makes your phone, you text

‎”That’s so sad” to a friend who is equally vexed

‎For twelve seconds. Then you post a picture of your food.

‎‎O world, your cruelty is our good mood.

‎It is our weekend. It is our quiet sleep.

‎It is the promise that the graves are deep

‎Enough that we won’t hear the scratching.

‎We are the ones who keep the latch.

‎VII. No Exit. No Amen.

‎‎There is no bridge in this poem. No dawn.

‎No lesson where the broken are reborn.

‎The father sells his daughter. The judge goes home.

‎The billionaire buys another time zone.

‎The beaten wife learns to love the dark

‎Because the dark, at least, leaves no mark

‎She has to explain. The child soldier grows

‎Into a man who only knows

‎That mercy is a bullet he can’t afford.

‎The world is not a poem. The world is a cord

‎Around the throat of everything that breathes.

‎And you? You finish reading. Your heart bequeaths

‎A sigh. A shiver. Then you turn the page.

‎The world continues. This is not a rage.

‎This is a fact. This is the only truth

‎That never needed proof:

‎The strong devour the weak. The weak devour

‎The weaker still. And every single hour

‎The universe watches and does not blink.

‎The only hell is what we do and think,

‎And what we fail to do because it’s easier

‎To be the torturer’s comfortable custodian

‎Than the one who bleeds.

‎Now close the book.

‎And do not ask to see where the angels look.

‎There are no angels.

‎There is only you, and your warm room,

‎Your heartbeat, and the distant, silent boom

‎Of a child’s body falling somewhere far.

‎Blow out the candle. It won’t leave a scar.

‎Tomorrow you will wake and eat your toast.

‎The world will hurt. You will hurt the most

‎The ones you love with tiny, daily knives.

‎That is the poem.

‎That is the song of human lives.

‎The End.

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