In a corner of the wounded city,
words harden into stone
thrown into the silent sky,
splitting the fog of certainty.
We march with wounds on our palms,
each step carving a promise on the asphalt:
Here there are those who do not want to be buried
in the silence of rulers and gold.
Fixed hands count every toll of the bell,
while the bars of shadow embrace dreams.
We are not dust that remains in the corner of history
each scream is a root that tears the concrete.
The night records us on its blacklist,
but on the cracked walls,
the wounds blossom into poetry
graffiti that reads the names
lost in the regime's archives.
We are the wind that disturbs the fire
in the furnace of eternity.
Even if today is cut into silence,
tomorrow, the sky will still bleed
with ink that refuses to go out.
Because protest is not just a roar
it is a promise planted in the carriage of time,
waiting for the season when the earth
finally answers:
"Fight!"
