By Rena Tara Phookan
they draw maps like wounds,
etch borders into flesh,
split rivers and brothers with the same stroke,
and call it order.
call it peace.
they shake hands over silence,
sip wine while cities fall,
rename violence as policy,
and wear compassion like a borrowed cloak
they never meant to keep.
truth is not spoken-
it is packaged, priced, politicized,
fed to the masses in measured doses,
bitter enough to pacify,
sweet enough to forget.
they trade futures like currency-
one child’s hunger
for another man’s gain.
they burn books, then rewrite them,
then ask why no one remembers.
flags wave like veils,
disguising greed as glory.
and beneath it all :
the quiet hum of suffering,
dull and persistent,
like a machine that can’t be shut off.
but still-
in narrow alleys and busy kitchens,
in cracked classrooms and crowded trains,
the pulse of the people beats on.
a mother braids hope into her daughter’s hair.
a teacher turns grief into learning.
a stranger lifts another from the rubble.
they do not own armies.
they do not sign decrees.
but they hold the line-
with empathy,
with resistance,
with love that asks for nothing
but a gentler world.
and isn’t that the truest kind of power?
not the kind that builds empires
on broken backs,
but the kind that kneels beside you
in your wreckage
and says,
"i see you.
you matter.
let’s begin again."