The peace they display is a ripe fruit from thousands of battles

The peace they display is a ripe fruit from thousands of battles, They walk among us, in a silence that intrigues and soothes, We think they have always been this way, under a benevolent star, But this peace vibrates like metal hammered a thousand times, It resonates with the memory of blows and raw wounds. A hundred years of inner war means demons faced, The fear of not being enough, doubt like a splinter under the skin, Anger burning inside, more than any enemy, It's a hundred years of learning: forgiveness frees oneself, That falling matters less than refusing to rise. Their peace is a silent victory, a fortress without walls, light, It's not forgetfulness, but a comforted memory, inhabiting the cracks, It does not fear the storm, knowing that at the end the sky is washed clean, And when their eyes meet yours, you feel the humility, Of those who have walked through fire and found themselves undefeated.