In the darkest hour of mankind’s fate,
Where hope and hunger war and oscillate,
The soul’s eternal resolve refuses to bend,
Shaping meaning from hardship no force can rend.

Where banners of propaganda defile the air,
And truth is traded for a gilded snare,
Yet in that void, a fierce flame remains—
An unbroken conscience, rejecting the chains.

When stripped of rights and silenced by decree,
The will to meaning stirs in secrecy.
A hidden text, a prayer the censors dread,
A vision of justice that endures when hope is dead.

A song of protest etched upon a wall,
A defiant voice enshrined where shadows fall,
Beauty, weaponized, now dares to implore:
“If not for our freedom, what are you fighting for?”

Beneath the boot, a root still grips the stone,
And embers breathe in ash where fires have blown.
The ghosts of truth, though banned from every tongue,
Burn bright in the hearts of the unheard and unsung.

Yet in suffering’s shadow, a paradox is found—
Each soul bears its sorrow, yet in others is bound.
We share bread and memory, and burdens unspoken,
Forging hope from the ruins, where fellowship is woken.

In a world reduced to one oppressive voice—
Each soul must weigh: submit, or make a choice.
To rise when silence rules and lies descend,
And guard the truth within us to the end.

Though flesh may fail and time stand still,
True meaning abides within the will.
Those who’ve found a “why” that will remain
Can bear with grace the weight of any pain.

So let them erase our story from history’s page,
And let fortune deal out its cruel, indifferent rage.
For in the soul’s crucible, our purpose is revealed—
With meaning wrought in suffering, no darkness can conceal.