for the fallen. for the living. for what lives on
They tried to end the song—
but forgot that we
are the echo
Tear gas in the lungs.
Boots on the backs of bodies.
Gunshots that pierced
the night
Names not yet counted—
but inscribed
into the skin of the sky.
We weep.
Yes, we weep.
Not because we are broken—
but because we still carry love
where others have buried theirs.
And still—
we rise with swollen eyes,
still holding the hands of those
who didn’t make it to morning.
We walk with them.
In every chant and raised fist,
every trembling step toward justice—
they walk with us.
Their blood did not vanish—
it sank into the earth like prayer.
And from that red soil,
a harvest is coming—
of truth,
of reparation,
of reckoning too long delayed.
We refuse to bury the light.
We refuse to silence their names.
We refuse to fold beneath the weight
of a state that fears its own people’s love for freedom.
Even in grief—
we are undefeated.
Even in pain—
we are becoming prophecy.
So when you light a candle,
know this:
You are not alone.
You never were.
You never will be.
Because hope—
real hope—
is not naïve.
It is fire wrapped in tears—
a spine that will not bend,
a song that outlives the gun.
And we?
We are that song.
– Ta∆fahri
