In the quiet corners of the night,
Where shadows cradle broken cries,
Voices echo, lost to fright,
Tears unseen by hardened eyes.
Each story buried beneath closed doors,
Each sorrow counted in invisible scores.
The streets remember what lips forget,
Footsteps stained with silent screams.
Promises of justice, fragile and wet,
Drift like smoke through shattered dreams.
Hands that should have held, have hurt,
And hope lies fractured in dirt.
A mother weeps for a daughter stolen,
A father trembles at a son’s despair.
The names of the missing are softly spoken,
Carried on the wind, yet met with vacant stares.
The world keeps turning, indifferent and blind,
While violence etches itself in humankind.
Yet in the heart of anguish, courage wakes,
A whisper against the roaring storm.
The fallen rise in the steps one takes,
Seeking to reclaim what was deformed.
Through banners, songs, and aching hands,
The movement blooms across broken lands.
Each tear is a seed in the soil of change,
Each voice a hammer against the night.
Though the darkness feels cruel, cold, and strange,
The light fights, demanding what is right.
Sorrow is deep, but so is the fight,
Even the smallest flame defies an endless night.
So let us remember those we cannot hear,
Let us speak when silence tries to reign.
Let each heart carry both grief and care,
Turning pain into purpose, anger into gain.
For 16 days, but more than days count,
Until love, not fear, becomes the mount.
Comments
Post a Comment