There are days when the world bends
like a tree weary from too many storms,
and yet, on some branch,
a leaf persists in staying green.
That leaf is culture, an ancient light
that finds its way through the cracks,
a book that spreads its wings,
a song that reminds us
that the earth holds memory,
a human gesture that says
we are still capable of caring,
a poem that ignites
in the throats of those who refuse to forget.
To resist is not to shout against the shadow,
it is a small glimmer of light that learns to grow.
An ember that does not go out
even when the wind tries to extinguish it.
For today, life trembles.
There are bodies walking in search of a place
and finding borders like walls of ice;
there are wounded peoples
as if their very name were a mistake;
there are wars that spread like cracks in the sky;
there are hands that seek to erase culture
so that no one remembers who they are.
But poetry —that light which does not bow to fear—
rises like a river returning to its course.
It brings a light that cannot be explained, yet it burns.
It burns in the word that takes root,
an imagination that opens windows
where others build walls.
True resistance is human.
It is to care for what lives,
it is to name what hurts
without turning it into hatred,
it is to hold on to beauty
as one holds a child in one’s arms.
And so, in the midst of a scorched world,
culture remains a beacon,
the word remains a bridge,
imagination, a lamp that never goes out.
That is what resistance is:
to keep the light burning
where others seek silence.
To be the leaf that remains green
even as the storm rages on.