This poem wants to commemorate the first atomic bomb dropped on humans by humans—the devastating attack on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, exactly 80 years ago yesterday. It reflects on the immense human loss and suffering caused that day. Despite this dark history, nuclear threats remain today, with leaders like Putin, regimes such as Iran, and countries including North Korea and Pakistan continuing to threaten with atomic destruction. The poem stands as a solemn warning that humanity has yet to learn from its catastrophic mistakes.
 

A cloudless sky, the summer heat was still.
The sirens silent. Children walked to school.
A silver plane flew high above the hill—
No warning, just the logic of the cruel.

Its name was Enola Gay, and in her bay
A weapon forged in secrets, pride, and fear.
The bomb was Little Boy. That day,
It grew into a god, and scorched the sphere.

It struck at 8:15. The morning cracked.
Steel, stone, and skin all vanished into dust.
No time for breath. No prayers. The daylight blacked.
A firestorm erased both life and trust.

Some lived, but wished they hadn't. Skin like thread,
Eyes wide in horror, dragging what remained.
The river took the burning and the dead.
The world just watched. Then watched again, unmoved, unchanged.

One hundred forty thousand lives were lost—
But not enough to change the path we tread.
We built still more, ignored the human cost,
And walked through ruins, dearming stars instead.

Now Putin speaks of warheads, targets, smoke.
Medvedev grins and hints at Western ash.
The silence grows between each shouted stroke.
We learned precisely nothing from the flash.

Not all at once will history explode.
It comes in steps. In warnings brushed aside.
The past lies buried near a children's road.
We mark the date. Then shrug. And take the ride.