A poem for those who stood beneath the lamp that will never die
The moon weeps in beautiful silence,
For beneath her gaze stands an unextinguished lamp.
A brilliance forged in suffering,
Glowing still, where freedom bled into the soil.
In a forgotten corner of the earth,
Petals fall like whispers of sorrow.
Yet in human hearts,
A sacred fire rises from sacrifice.
A land soaked in ruby-red blood,
Cradle’s voiceless cries beneath its skin.
That fire which will not fade—
Was it our rights, or just our lives, that burned away?
Petals scatter from the hands of the UN,
And in those soft offerings lies a distant compassion.
But you are not our kin.
You are a witness—late, distant, cautious.
Beneath the soil, the children still cry.
If these are “human rights,” must we die to prove them?
Like the lamp that refuses to die,
So too does our resistance breathe.
When our silence became your solemn tribute,
Justice wandered into the shadow.
As your flowers rise into the air,
Let the world hear:
Forget us not.
Eelaththu Nilavan ❖ 25/06/2025
