They draw lines on maps with pens of pride,
claiming land they’ve never walked,
issuing threats from marble halls
while I sip tea in a house I built.
Nobody asked if I wanted this fear,
if I wished to wake to the sound of sirens.

They say it’s for freedom, for honour, for peace—
words worn thin from misuse.
But I’ve seen children learn to duck before they read,
elders bury their stories in rubble.
Nobody asked if I cared who insulted who,
or which throne feels most threatened?

Don’t send your tanks to prove a point.
Don’t fly your flags through our quiet streets.
I don’t need your power plays,
or your ghostwritten speeches of resolve.
Nobody asked if we wanted to be pawns,
moved by men who never bleed.

I want gardens, not graves.
Bread shared, not borders sealed.
Let schools outlive slogans,
let hospitals hum louder than war drums.
Nobody asked me what matters most—
they just assumed I’d agree.

You talk of enemies I’ve never met,
accuse, sanction, divide, repeat.
But my neighbours have names, not allegiances.
We speak with laughter, not warnings.
Nobody asked if I’d trade peace for pride,
or silence for the sound of missiles.

So keep your doctrines and your dusted flags.
Keep your missiles and mirrored halls.
If you must fight, don’t do it in my name.
I’ll be here, building something worth keeping.
Nobody asked me—but I’m speaking now.
And I say: not in my name, not ever again.