Where graves are counted by innocent eyes,
And sorrow takes the shape of tears—
Where the light has vanished forever,
And even the darkness hides in fear.
...
It's the dead that scares me—
Not death itself, but the silence it brings.
With a longing to live this life,
I fear the end, not for immortality,
...
Sometimes, we are like the bowed green willows,
Admired by others for our beauty—
Our lush greenery, our graceful, hanging branches—
Yet no one sees the weight we bear.
...
Is This Where We Belong?
Where graves are counted by innocent eyes,
And sorrow takes the shape of tears—
Where the light has vanished forever,
And even the darkness hides in fear.
Years of blood have stained this land,
And once more, the blood begins to fall.
The sparrow remains locked in her cage,
While vultures still circle, patient, cruel.
A child's cry carries a piercing ache,
Sharp enough to shatter a thousand hearts.
Where the powerless are mocked for fun,
And the powerful take it all apart.
Each day, bloodshed paints the scene—
Not from flesh, but from the soul—
In the weeping eyes of the innocent
Who mourn the ones no longer whole.
I watch the souls depart in silence,
Carrying pain, burdened with regret.
And there, I question all of mankind—
Is this the fate that we accept?
A world where the innocent suffer in chains,
While the system favors only the strong.
Perhaps it's the order of the cosmos itself:
A master must rise, a slave must belong.
But still I wonder, still I grieve—
Is this truly where we belong?