Whispers from the Wings

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 I am but a little sparrow.

Once, I sang on your statues,

Kings carved eyes into stones,

and the stones bore witness to the waves.


The waves danced, the stones endured—

until, in time, both broke at the brow of silence.

now I flit through ruins—

seeking warmth in the cracks of fallen kings.


Monuments rose from dust,

crowned with glory, kissed by time.

You may not see me,

but I see all.


Histories etched in truth and toil

now lie forgotten beneath the weight of storms.

I saw when the hands that once shaped beauty

were clenched in fists of power.


Pride sculpted shapes in granite,

only to watch them crumble,

like trees with roots torn from the earth.

I heard silence shout

when statues fell, not by time, but by anger.


Each grain of soil whispers stories—

of hope, of hurt, of hands that built and broke.

You build high, you dig deep,

but do you remember the sky?


I perched today on a shattered face—

not of a man, but of memory.

The child who smiles with empty hands

knows more peace than thrones of stone.


Blood had once cried through these cracks.

Eyes carved in marble had forgotten to see.

" Build with love, not just with stone".


Why do you burn what you once bowed to?

Why do you forget

that every fall writes a new line of truth?

"A monument without mercy is a shadow."


Even broken statues speak—

not of their power,

but of your silence.

 "When you rise too high, don't forget the ones beneath".


One day, you will wonder

why the birds no longer sing on your rooftops.

"Even a broken wing can feel the wind."


But remember—

songs do not die.

" A sparrow’s song can wake a sleeping world ".


They fly,

waiting for a heart brave enough to listen.

So I sing again:


Let kindness be your chisel,

Let unity be your stone,

And let the sky be your only throne.


"Even a sparrow, small and frail,

can carry the weight of forgotten wisdom.

Will you, human, listen?"



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