but we did not learn from fire.
History’s breath still smells of smoke—
villages burned for flags,
hearts exiled for names,
and yet we call ourselves human.
The pyramids rise,
the chains rattle,
the ships carry bodies instead of dreams.
A century writes freedom,
yet another erases it with ink of silence.
What do we weigh heavier—
a crown of gold,
or a child’s empty bowl?
Humanity walks, limping,
on fractured roads of memory.
We build towers higher than mountains,
but cannot build a bridge
across the hunger in a neighbor’s eyes.
We invent gods of iron and fire,
and forget the god of bread and water.
Still—
in the cracks of cruelty,
a spark lives.
It glows in the smile of a stranger,
the hand that reaches for the fallen,
the voice that says No! to the empire of fear.
Perhaps that is what makes us human:
not the wars we win,
but the silences we break,
not the monuments we carve,
but the kindness we risk.
One day,
when history grows weary of repeating itself,
may we finally deserve the word human.
Imran Nazeer
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