This Is Where I Rise
Let it be known—
this is where I rose.
Not from victory,
but from void.
Not from praise,
but from prayerless nights
with no answer.
I rose not like sunlight,
but like stone breaking through its tomb.
Not like wind—
but like silence that chose to speak.
This is where I shed the skin of survival.
Where I buried the man
who begged for belonging.
Where I kissed the hands of pain
and said, “Your work is done.”
I am no longer waiting.
Not for love, not for country,
not for the applause of blind kings.
I carry a pen that knows thunder.
I walk with a gaze that remembers Egypt.
I was not born to chase wealth—
I was born to carve memory into sky.
Let those who knew me say:
He fell many times—
but when he rose,
the Earth shifted.
Let the old gods bear witness.
This is not the end.
This is the beginning
of the man the stars feared
and the world forgot.
I have returned.
Whole.
Holy.
On fire.
—Chanda
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