The sun sets over the city.
The birds fly as they always do —

beyond borders, beyond languages,
beyond the disputes that humans draw on maps.

They do not know the word “front.”
They do not understand the word “enemy.”
They know only the direction of the wind and the rhythm of the seasons.

And yet something new appears in their eyes — unease.

Smoke rises toward a sky that was meant to be clear.
Fire devours the earth that was meant to bring forth life.
The olive branch carried in a beak becomes almost a question:
is it truly a flood again — this time of fire?

Saint Paul wrote that “the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth” (Rom 8:22).
Perhaps this is what we are seeing — not only human drama, but a cosmic trembling.

The earth that was meant to be a garden becomes a field of fear.
The sky that was meant to be a space of freedom is cut through with traces of unrest.

The birds keep flying.
Their wings know nothing of politics.
Yet nature responds — with silence, with alarm, with held breath.

War is never only a human affair.
It touches the soil, the air, the water.
It touches the silent witnesses — trees, animals, birds in flight.

And yet within the same scene there is something else:
flight.
A branch.
A movement toward the future.

Perhaps creation does not only fear — perhaps it also waits.
For the moment when humanity learns again to look at the sky not to warn of fire, but to seek peace.

For creation was not made for war.
It was made for harmony.

And perhaps the birds — frightened, yet still flying — remind us
that above the chaos, the Spirit still hovers.