The desert wind calls a name written on vertisols. Don't be surprised, dust forgets its source  the moment it leaves the ground. The dust will settle. It always does over the charred dreams of children. Home’s a childhood memory fractured by a kalashnikov's cough. Remember orange trees heavy with fruit? Here, the only sweetness is fear. The desert’s wind came on a scorpion’s breath, black flags rippling like a dying crow’s wing. The muezzin’s call became a choked sob, then silence. Silence thick with the stench of burning books. Silence is just the world holding its breath, waiting for the next explosion. We were told it’s a new dawn. A dawn, the colour of ash. They said don’t cry. Tears are a weakness this new dawn cannot afford. But can a river forget its source? Can a lake forget its journey to the sea? The only journey here is the endless shuffle towards a horizon that seems to recede every step closer you get. They took us to a city with tents stitched with despair billowing like ghosts. They said don’t cry. Shared a scrap of stale bread. Can a broken spirit be mended with a crust of bread? At night, the desert stars weep. Even the stars are refugees searching for a place to belong. We close our eyes and try to dream, but sleep offers no solace. Dreams, for the displaced, are not promises. They are the halves of a shattered sky. They’re memories. Images of houses bathed in golden light, peace lost in the storm. The only stars we see glimmer not in the sky, but in the tear-filled eyes of children who no longer remember the laughter of rain.