Whispers

The flags wave, but not in joy— each fold a whisper from the past, each thread soaked with silent prayers. They stand tall, but the ground beneath them has known the weight of souls who cannot rise. In the quiet of the cemetery, where time does not dare to move too fast, the wind speaks in the language of absence. For every flag, a story is buried— not just of wars, but of lives lived between battles, of moments taken in the blink of an eye. These flags do not flutter for the living, but for the ones who gave all they could, so we could continue breathing in freedom’s name. And in their silence, we listen.