The Quiet Collapse
Pity the nation where silence drowns the truth, where the people shuffle in step, eyes downcast, following voices that lead them astray. Where those who dare to question are cast aside, their wisdom swallowed by the roar of ignorance.
Mourn the land that sings only of its own greatness, deaf to the melodies of others. Where history bends to the hands of those who rewrite it, where cruelty is cloaked in banners and slogans, and power wears the mask of virtue.
Grieve for the land that worships wealth, where hunger for more consumes the soul, and comfort lulls the restless mind into sleep too deep to dream of justice.
Weep for those who trade their freedoms for the illusion of safety, who watch their rights slip through their fingers like sand and call it destiny.
Lament those who sit in high towers, unscathed by the storms below. Who sip their contentment in quiet rooms, untouched by the hands that tremble, the voices that break, the lives that shrink in the shadow of power. They do not speak, for the walls around them are thick, and the troubles of others are distant as a fading echo. They do not rise, for their world is still bright, though the sky beyond their windows darkens.
But fault them most when the silence they nurtured comes knocking at their own door — when they finally call for help and find only the emptiness they once ignored.
Oh, land once lifted by the promise of liberty — do you not hear the echoes of your own unspoken sorrow?
— —
(Inspired by Kahlil Gibran’s “Pity The Nation”)
