They drew their borders in the sand,
With rusted guns and trembling hands.
They named the silence “peace again,”
While children vanished in the rain.
A girl in Gaza kissed the sky
Before the bombs began to cry.
A boy in Kyiv sang alone
His lullaby became a stone.
The skies were torn by roaring steel,
The earth forgot how peace should feel.
Yet in the ash where angels fell,
Hope rang like bells inside a shell.
They burned the books, denied the graves,
They silenced poets, caged the brave.
But voices buried in the ground
Still rise in winds a sacred sound.
From Rafah's dust to Darfur’s night,
From Uyghur prayers kept out of sight,
The fallen speak through those who breathe
Their dreams the seeds beneath our feet.
We light our candles not in vain,
But for the mothers lost in pain.
We walk with names they tried to hide,
Their courage marching at our side.
The soul’s not made for chains or scars,
It charts its course by broken stars.
And freedom isn’t just a dream
It’s blood remembered in a stream.
We are the words they died to write,
The dawn they dreamed beyond the fight.
So when we stand, we stand for them,
The voiceless crowned in diadem.
Let every protest, prayer, and flame
Be etched with every sacred name.
One whisper, one vow, one last breath
Still dares to rise beyond their death.