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Poem

If you are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say you enjoyed it.
In the garden of silence, where words are unblossomed flowers and sighs, invisible dew,
We grow, we trees with deep roots in the soil of mute suffering,
With branches stretching towards a deaf sky, imploring a touch of understanding.
Pain, this captive bird in the cage of our chest, beats its wings against the bars of silence,
And we, magicians of dissimulation, transform tears into smiles and wounds into ornaments,
While the executioners of fabricated happiness dance on the graves of our unspoken voices.
Oh, how silence wraps around us, a venomous snake that tightens its grip ever more,
Until breath becomes a whisper, and the whisper transforms into shadow,
And the shadow melts into the void of a denied, unrecognized, unheard existence.
They, these sculptors of alternative reality, carve statues of ecstasy from our silence,
Paint canvases of imaginary happiness on our muteness,
And compose symphonies of joy from our deafening silence.
But deep within our being, a volcano of truth boils, grows, rebels,
The magma of pain struggles to erupt, to break the crust of indifference and denial,
For each unspoken syllable is a seed of revolution planted in the soil of consciousness.
So let us break the chains of silence, open the gates to the sound of our pain,
Let the cry fly like a phoenix reborn from the ashes of muteness,
For only in the roar of our truth will we find the freedom to be truly alive and heard.
For if we remain silent in the face of our own suffering,
We will become accomplices to our own execution,
And they will dance on our graves, proclaiming that we died happy.

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