For years, the voices have risen—
from parched fields, from coastlines swallowed by the sea,
from homes turned to ruins by winds too fierce to be natural.

They ask not for mercy,
but for what is owed—
a recognition, a reckoning.

In glass towers and conference halls,
the wealthy nations turn away,
their signatures missing from promises long made,
their hands gripping wealth built on a burning planet.

Storms rage louder now,
waves crash higher,
droughts stretch longer,
but still, they hesitate.

The ones who suffer know the weight of inaction,
measured in lost harvests, displaced families,
children breathing in the dust of what once was home.

And yet, there is hope—
a whisper in the winds,
a trembling in the roots,
a gathering of voices that refuse to be silenced.

This is not charity.
It is justice.
It is the past catching up with the present,
demanding to be acknowledged.

There is no more time for debate.
No room for delay.
The debt must be paid.
Before the earth takes it in blood.

The day she committed suicide,
it was her twentieth birthday.
She was always shy,
rarely met with people,
seldom heard was her voice.

She loved to spend time alone,
talked and laughed at times,
then fell into silence for days—
until one day,
she fell silent forever.

Fighting mental illness is a little difficult,
but winning this battle is not impossible.
In memory of her, let us be a guiding light,
promote compassion and understanding.

In our hearts, a symphony of empathy thrives,
let us ensure that hope survives.
We can foster a world that’s kind and just,
where battling mental illness—
we rise, we trust.

I feel sadness,
A quiet grief within me.
Not because someone has gone,
Not because life has ended.

We come into this world only to leave,
So why this sorrow?
Why this ache?
It’s not his departure that burdens my heart—
It’s the unhappiness he carried,
A life with so little joy,
So much pain.

Yet, through the window of my memories,
Whenever I saw him,
He was always smiling.
That smile—
Bright, enduring—
It lingers in my mind.

And now, I search for his picture
Amid a pile of photographs,
But I can’t find it.

In solitude
I reminisce
of love that once was mine to kiss
but now
my heart is but amiss
as I mourn the love
I dearly miss.

Without a single word,
They tell their stories—
Years spent apart,
Yet yearning to meet.

Fingers trace memories,
Whispers of time gone by,
Silent but profound,
In their gentle touch, they sigh.

They speak of love and loss,
Of moments slipped through sand,
A timeless conversation,
In the language of hands.

Life is a tightly woven tale,
A grim beginning, a joyful trail.
Who can say if smiles at dawn,
Won't fade to tears when day is gone?

Write your story with a humble pen,
Let kindness guide where it may wend.
Leave behind the weight of shame,
And walk through life, free of blame.

Stitch by stitch,
fingers move like ghosts in dim-lit rooms,
eyes strained, backs bent,
breath laced with dust and silence.

A label whispers luxury,
a name stitched in gold,
but behind the seams,
a child traces hunger with trembling hands.

The clock does not sleep,
nor do the hands that sew,
woven into fabric priced in dollars,
while wages shrink to cents.

Promises drape the storefronts,
Ethical. Sustainable. Fair.
But behind factory doors,
needles pierce more than cloth.

Somewhere, a thread unravels,
and a name is lost in the weave,
a worker, a mother, a child.
Their voices fade,
but the machines never stop.