Writers 
I was born where mornings rise
through roads and smoke,
where dreams wear borrowed uniforms
and courage learns to cope.
I learned the language of rain,
the patience of the tree,
and mothers’ quiet strength,
who give their last to set us free.
The world said, “Know your place.”
I asked, “Who built the walls?”
Then gathered fallen stone
to build a bridge, not walls.
I have seen hope in tired faces,
in hands that give,
in children turning empty pages
into reasons to live.
My country is a restless drum
beneath a sky;
yet every dawn, her people rise
and teach the earth to try.
I am not what I suffer,
nor the limits others see.
I am a question still unfolding,
the answer I am yet to be.
Let them count my failures;
I will rise whenever I fall.
I will turn each scar to scripture
and write my story on the wall.
For stars are born in darkness,
and voices still can fly.
So when tomorrow calls my name,
I will answer without fear.
I will arrive with open hands
and leave something brighter here.
I was never made to vanish.
I am a flame burning here.