History does not pause for breath,
it moves like morning,
inevitable yet unnoticed.
We carve decisions into it,
rough edges and second guesses,
but no moment stands untouched by the past.
Some call for restoration—
others dismantle, brick by brick,
rebuilding from what remains.
The voices collide,
wary of each retort.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem