Shrouds Have No Pockets

by Hagir Elsheikh

I stood there with nothing but sand and stars,

The wind howling stories of pain,

Carrying the voices of the lost,

Holding the footprints of those who fled.

And every step was a battle fought.

You may have woken in a room filled with laughter,

The hum of a lullaby wrapping you in warmth,

Untouched by fear.

While I woke to hunger,

To whispers of war,

To a world that never seemed fair.

To nights that swallowed my hope whole.

But tell me, does the sun not rise for us both?

Does the rain not fall on every land,

Not touch our skin,

Not kiss our faces alike?

Do our hearts not beat with the same rhythm,

No matter where our journey began?

No matter where we stand—

Whether in golden halls or on cold, barren nights?

Does your sorrow not mirror mine?

Did your mother not whisper the same lullabies,

In a language different,

Yet in love so familiar?

I’ve seen those who have lost everything.

I’ve seen hands that build and hands that break.

I’ve met kindness in the darkest places

And seen cruelty where I once felt safe.

Yet the world loves to point, to judge,

Paints us all with one heavy brush,

Whispers tales so far from truth,

As if where we’re from tells the full story,

As if one person’s crime defines us all,

Seals our fates before we speak a word.

From birth, we’re branded with blame,

As if the color of our skin,

The name on our lips,

Tells the world all it needs to know.

But I have seen a starving child

Break his last piece of bread in two.

I have seen a mother with no home

Still cradle her baby’s head.

I have seen a stranger with nothing

Give away his only coat.

I have seen those who’ve lost everything

Still hold onto kindness like a lifeline.

They are not the monsters you fear,

Nor the saints you long to find.

They are simply people shaped by struggle,

Defined not by where they come from,

But by the choices they make.

So before you judge, before you decide,

Look past the noise, past the fear,

And seek the truth with open eyes.

Hate is not born; it is carefully taught,

A poison passed down like an heirloom of sorrow,

An old, bitter song.

But love, too, can be planted,

And it can grow just as strong.

And in the darkest of places,

Through the hardest of surfaces,

It dares to grow.

And when it all ends,

When the last breath is drawn,

What will remain?

No money, no wealth, no power, no title,

No borders to divide.

For the shroud has no pockets,

And we take nothing with us—

Only the love we gave,

The hearts we touched,

The kindness that lit someone’s way,

The footprints we left behind.

So when you meet me, see me as a whole,

Not just my struggle, my skin, or my role.

See me as a story, just like yours.

We all bleed the same.

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