Norwegian Island

We arrived beneath the Arctic night, where shadows speak and snow forgets. The hour was late — the sky, without stars — and silence held its breath. They led us down through frozen stone, where time stood still in vaults of seed, the cradle of the world encased in frost, beneath the Svalbard grief. There, they gathered — men with hands of power, voices smooth as windless death. And one arose with eyes of steel and said: > “Let food be war. Let hunger shape their fate. We'll give them seeds that cannot bloom, and hold the ones that can, for us alone.” The room was still. The tunnel cried. I heard my ancestors in the dark. Their whispers rose through icy walls — > "You are stealing the sun from their mouths." They spoke of Africa, its soil still wet with tears, its children taught to swallow dust in place of bread. They named Asia — lands of rice and rivers, and how they’d dam the future through the root. > “We will make land a luxury,” one said with wine in hand. “Let them beg for what was theirs. Let their hunger teach them silence.” Oh, Earth, forgive us. For deep below the surface, they buried more than seeds. They planted sorrow into time. And not a soul will know— Until one day, when fields no longer flower, and hands reach out to skies that will not rain. Let this be known: they made a pact that day in tunnels cold and cruel. And the price… will be our children’s name whispered in a language of hunger.