I share the joy, I shoulder pain,
and in the womb of time, the future
swells—pregnant with truth.
We place our faith in polished uniforms,
in practiced vows of protection,
only to discover, too late,
how easily guardians become oppressors.
They laugh into your face,
a smile rehearsed for public light,
while something foul and hidden
carries the weight of what you cannot say.
They stand behind you—close,
as if to steady you—
yet sharpen silence into a blade,
waiting for your wound to open.
Be calm with them,
not because they are right,
but because storms
do not answer storms.
One day, they will return
with the sourness of regret
and nowhere to place it.
Let silence keep its dignity.
Let it remain tomorrow’s opportunity,
the space where wisdom
chooses its words carefully.
Security blurs the line
where truth and lies contend,
and in that haze,
the honest voice becomes suspect.
They look at the storyteller
and call him an enemy.
They would rather dig and bury the sunrise
than sit with the smoke of their own rooms;
rather bruise the dawn
than search for the living cherry
inside your words—
the meaning they refuse to taste.
And the enemy of the people,
so easily appointed,
so loudly accused,
often becomes the chief priest
of execution.
Learn today:
yesterday was the lesson.
Move forward with pain,
but do not marry it.
Bandage your lingering wounds
with the best medicine—
patience.
Healing takes time.
The mark may remain,
a permanent remembrance
etched into skin and spirit.
Let it be a teacher,
not a chain.
Do not fight today
with strength alone.
Save your breath.
Stand another day for rebuke,
another day for clear sight,
another day for justice
that does not borrow violence
to prove its point.
Trust, once lost,
does not vanish quietly.
It waits in the calendar of the heart,
and when tomorrow arrives,
it will remind you
to choose carefully,
to speak truth steadily,
and never to confuse
protection with power.
