By Mohammed Talal 

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They came with silence, they came with war,
With boots that trampled dreams before.
They stitched the sky with barbed command,
And drew their lines across the land.

The air was thick with spoken lies,
Each promise choked, each hope denied.
They built their towers, tall and stark,
And cast their shadows, cold and dark.

But whispers turned to rising waves,
A voice defied the fear it braved.
A name was spoken, then erased,
Yet still it burned, still it blazed.

In Dhaka’s streets, they raised their cries,
Beneath the ever-watchful eyes.
A banner torn, a book held tight,
A flicker grew into a light.

The past was written, sealed in ink,
But minds were taught to rise and think.
And though the tyrants turned away,
The words still carved another day.

A boy fell bleeding, hand outstretched,
His name became a whispered breath.
A mother wept but did not bow,
Her grief a torch, still burning now.

The air was thick with smoke and fear,
The sound of marching drawing near.
Yet still, they stood, yet still, they swore,
No more chains, no more war.

They filled the prisons, broke the bones,
But could not turn the hearts to stone.
For even under bloodstained skies,
The fire never truly dies.

One day the statues crack and fall,
The towers crumble, dust and all.
The books once burned will be re-read,
And ghosts will rise where they once bled.

And though the tyrants beg and plead,
No mercy grows where they have tread.
For power falls, and freedom stays,
A phoenix rising from the blaze.

So write the names, and carve the truth,
In stone, in song, in fearless youth.
For history bends, but never lies,
And fire—it never truly dies.