Hope Refused to Kneel

I didn’t hold a placard.

I wasn’t in the crowd.

But I heard the screams —

sharp as truth,

the rubber shots,

the quiet moments –

between the sound of sirens.

From my window,

I watched boys become

the faces we light candles for.

Watched girls,

eyes stinging from tear gas,

still shouting,

still standing.

Smoke curled through the alley

like a quiet grief,

and my heart broke —

not from fear,

but from the way

hope refused to kneel.

They came with chants.

They were met with war.

And since then,

every sunrise feels like 18th July—

a little heavier,

a little bolder.

As if the city still carries

the echo of what they dared to believe.