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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Woe Upon the Ancestors’ Land Woe to those who wear the uniform to make the people tremble, who send bullets where words should pass, who use the law like a stick to break the bones of those already bent. Woe to offices filled with signatures and seals that never sign for justice, to ministries that speak of “security” while the streets swallow the blood of mothers’ children. They sit in executive power as if seated on a mountain, forgetting their roots in the mud. They forget Haiti is not air-conditioned offices— it is the market woman under the burning sun, the student running from tear gas, the mother crying when sirens pass. In the middle of it all, darkness walks at noon, and they call it “order,” they call it “mission.” But Haiti never truly dies. For in every street that has tasted bullets, there is a child learning to read. On every wall marked by graffiti, a dream is secretly being written. The blue and red flag is more than color— it is the breath of ancestors still beating. They may make the people weep, they may turn daylight into night, but they cannot kill hope planted in this soil long ago. For even when the law sleeps, conscience awakens. And even when power makes noise, truth walks quietly… …until one day, light will enter the Palace not as flames, but as the sun of justice. Haiti will rise.
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