[Because there is a kind of grief that doesn’t whimper—it roars.]
You thought we would cower.
bow and break.
Scatter like ash in your armored wind.
But look again—
we are fire-born,
ancestor-forged,
and this rage is sacred flame.
You murdered our kin into the night—
thinking forgetting would follow.
You shot into crowds
with trembling hands,
as if bullets could erase witness.
You don’t know who you’ve summoned.
We are not afraid of you.
We are the bloodlines of the hanged, tortured, disappeared.
We wear grief like armor
and carry the names of the dead
like war drums in our chest.
You wanted fear.
You’ve ignited fury.
Every teargas cloud—
a baptism.
Every siren—
a hymn.
Every gunshot—
a prophecy unfurling.
We will not forget.
We will not forgive.
Not until justice
burns as brightly
as the bodies you tried to silence.
You rule with shadows,
but we’ve learned to see in the dark.
This is not the end.
This is a storm, gathering breath.
This is the pause before a new world breaks open.
This is youth who won’t be bribed,
a people who won’t be gaslit,
a country that will not go quietly
into your grave of lies.
So hear this clearly—
we are coming.
With names.
With receipts.
With songs you cannot unhear.
The streets are awake now.
we are done—
done begging to be heard.
