Mar 18
O wind, unseen courier,
vault of sorrow and song—
rise from the quieted earth,
where hunger braids itself into ribs,
where mothers cup empty hands
as if they could cradle the moon.
Rush through iron-clad cities,
where glass towers drink gold
while children sip the night for supper.
Drag the scent of burning forests
through chambers where power feasts—
let no throat swallow without the taste of ruin.
O wind, tear through borders,
where names are flayed from skin,
where home is a word lost in translation.
Sweep through courtrooms
where justice kneels to coin,
where verdicts fall like loaded dice,
where mercy is a language
long buried beneath the floorboards.
Howl through locked doors,
where love turns to bruises,
where silence weighs heavier than chains.
Rush the alleys, the streets, the rooftops,
where daughters walk with their eyes downcast,
where the night is a mouth
swallowing their names whole.
O wind, press your hands
against the windows of kings,
against suits spun from war-fed gold.
Let them hear the ghost-cries
of forests bled dry,
the bones buried beneath their neon arteries.
Whisper into the ears of emperors:
How many graves must the earth drink
before they call it enough?
How many oceans must rise
before we finally see
the wreckage in the mirror?
O wind, roar—
drown the speeches,
scatter the lies,
tear blindfolds from gilded eyes.
Make the world listen.
Make them remember.
Or let the silence bury them instead.
vault of sorrow and song—
rise from the quieted earth,
where hunger braids itself into ribs,
where mothers cup empty hands
as if they could cradle the moon.
Rush through iron-clad cities,
where glass towers drink gold
while children sip the night for supper.
Drag the scent of burning forests
through chambers where power feasts—
let no throat swallow without the taste of ruin.
O wind, tear through borders,
where names are flayed from skin,
where home is a word lost in translation.
Sweep through courtrooms
where justice kneels to coin,
where verdicts fall like loaded dice,
where mercy is a language
long buried beneath the floorboards.
Howl through locked doors,
where love turns to bruises,
where silence weighs heavier than chains.
Rush the alleys, the streets, the rooftops,
where daughters walk with their eyes downcast,
where the night is a mouth
swallowing their names whole.
O wind, press your hands
against the windows of kings,
against suits spun from war-fed gold.
Let them hear the ghost-cries
of forests bled dry,
the bones buried beneath their neon arteries.
Whisper into the ears of emperors:
How many graves must the earth drink
before they call it enough?
How many oceans must rise
before we finally see
the wreckage in the mirror?
O wind, roar—
drown the speeches,
scatter the lies,
tear blindfolds from gilded eyes.
Make the world listen.
Make them remember.
Or let the silence bury them instead.
Wrote this for a program on the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs)—a call for justice, a cry for the unheard, and a reckoning for the world that turns away. Let the wind carry this truth. Let the world not just hear, but act.
