Cold Fire
They speak in flames that do not burn,
A furnace of phrases, polished and loud.
“My government will leave no stone unturned
Until the perpetrators are arrested
And made to face the full wrath of the law.”
Sirens of promise wail through the air,
Yet the ashes remain exactly as found.
Words roar from official handles,
Broadcast in waves across waiting ears
Through every medium
Threats dressed in the uniforms of law.
“Full weight,” they say, with borrowed thunder,
But justice sleeps behind a bolted door.
Each dawn counts bodies like broken clocks,
Lives shattered between headlines and dust.
Homes reduced to nameless rubble,
While speeches rise:
“I have given marching orders to the security chiefs
To ensure these criminals are hunted down
And face the full wrath of the law”
Faithful in tone, yet barren in truth.
The killers walk with familiar shadows,
Their footprints unafraid of the light.
No cuffs clasp their wrists,
No courts summon their names into the night.
Words parade proudly across the screen;
Action limps, wounded and late.
Declarations pile like fragile sandbags,
Still blood seeps under the gate.
O cold fire! You glow without heat,
You threaten without a strike.
You roar for cameras and crowds,
Then whisper when justice must bite.
How long shall we be governed by echoes,
By vows that die at the microphone?
A nation cannot be warmed by slogans,
Nor secured by a voice alone.
Let silence fall on empty threats,
Or let deeds finally speak.
For fire that cannot save a life
Is colder than the weak.
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