I come from a land without a voice,

But where silence speaks louder than war.
On our morning walks, we pick flowers,
On our way home, we place them on graves.

Evening comes, heavy with the sound of guns,
Yet the wind rises to wipe it away.
Still, the scars remain—etched on walls,
Written in the mountains, whispered by the dust.

At night, we gather around the fire,
Speaking of ancestors, freedom, the future.
And from the dark, our voices rise,
Like flames from embers thought long dead.

Carrying the weight of centuries of madness,
But tell me—whose madness is this?
Is it ours, or the one imposed upon us,
That turns our homes into exile?

The broken walls of our cities,
The flowers placed on our dead,
The bullet-ridden bodies of our brothers—
They are the witnesses of History.

You may silence the living,
But even in death, we shall speak.