When a Nation Bleeds

Do you hear it-

not the gunshot,

but the silence that follows,

a deafening void filled with unwept tears,

heavy as grief that refuses to be spoken?  

A nation did not simply lose a man that day;

it misplaced its conscience,

its soul slipping through fractured fingers.

The earth drank blood-

not as nourishment, but as poison-

meant to water the seeds of peace

and watch them wither in the shadow of hate.  

Yesterday, freedom danced-

a fragile flame in borrowed sunlight,

its bangles ringing with hope-

a melody of what could be,

a promise whispered in the breeze.

Today, the same hands tremble-

unsure how to cradle the future,

haunted by the ghosts of what was stolen.  

We thought history was finished-

sealed in books and statues,

immortalized in stone and memory-

but we forgot it breathes-

it bleeds-

through us, in every silent prayer,

in every broken promise,

in every unspoken apology.  

A father fell-

his last breath a question-

etched deeply on the foreheads of children yet unborn:

What will you do with my dream?  

How easily faith turns into fury,

how quickly prayer sharpens into a blade-

as rituals glow,

but hearts grow dark-

as the soul’s light dims under the weight of despair.

Culture is praised-

while compassion is buried beneath the rubble of indifference.  

Enough.

Let truth unmask itself-

no longer cloaked in comfort,

no longer silenced by fear.

Let memory refuse to be pacified-

demanding that we confront what we have ignored.

Let light learn to argue-

with shadows that threaten to consume us.  

From the ashes of apathy,

from the ruins of gentleness-

rise a fiercer courage-

not the reckless courage to strike back,

but the unwavering courage to stand unarmed-

before hatred,

and refuse to mirror its darkness.  

Let the veins of this land flow-

not with slogans or empty promises,

but with responsibility-

with action born from silence disciplined by reflection.

The past is not a museum of memories-

it is a mirror,

reflecting who we are,

what we’ve become.  

Walk into it carefully-

with humility, with remorse, with resolve.

Go, if you must,

to the place where he fell-

not as tourists of grief,

but as pilgrims of resolve-

carrying the weight of what’s lost,

the strength of what can still be saved.  

The air still remembers-

how forgiveness breathes,

how healing begins with a single breath,

how hope persists in the face of despair.  

And when darkness roars again-

as it always does-

answer not with blood,

but with the stubborn labor-

the relentless, sacred toil-

of being human,

of choosing love over hate,

of rising from the ashes,

reborn in resilience,

more compassionate, more resolute.