November 27th
A mother stands with a trembling hand,
Lighting a lamp for her vanished land.
Her eyes reflect the years that gone by,
Of battles fought of children's cry.
Before her, pink petals softly fall,
Each one a name - she knows them well.
The years have passed, but she still sees,
Her child beneath those crimson trees.
No flag, no song can ease her pain,
Yet pride and sorrow can weave the same.
For in her heart, she knows too well,
The story that no words can tell.
Around her now, scorching torches rise,
Their golden smoke ascends the skies.
People scarred, yet unbroken still,
Their memory stronger than a brick wall.
And as the glistening moon starts to gleam,
She whispers softly like a soothing dream.
"MY child, your path paved in flame,
But freedom bears your sacred name."
On November 27, the singeing candles glow,
A silent vow the hearts we all know.
The fallen rest, Yet never fade,
For their courage, nations are made.
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