Letters of Ash, Seeds of Dawn-Humanitarian Poem
"Letters of Ash, Seeds of Dawn"
I.
Myths once bore light, now wear iron masks,
Invading truths with scripted lies.
Where death should close, it now unmasks—
A conquest staged for watching eyes.
Peace wore war’s robe in silken thread,
While warriors wept in silent prayer.
The holy watched the hour’s dread,
Yet found no justice anywhere.
II.
Words once rose like dawn to sing,
Now fall like dusk, lost in decay.
The scholar bends beneath the king,
And science kneels where myths still pray.
Who writes the war that none have seen?
Who laughs at death from golden thrones?
While children dream of battle's sheen,
And play with steel that splits their bones.
III.
Trade marries death, and power feeds
On hands that build but own no bread.
The worker’s sweat is sown in weeds—
A harvest lost, a dream long dead.
The mother cries, unnamed, unknown,
Her voice erased by cannon’s cry.
Her lips are dry, her cradle’s stone—
Her songs are drowned in smoke-filled sky.
IV.
Yet still, within the ash of verse,
A root begins to split the grave.
And poets curse the curse’s curse—
With songs too fierce to chain or shave.
Let not the pen praise sharpened sword,
But turn its edge to split deceit.
Let myths be truth, not gilded hoard—
And power rest at mercy’s feet.
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