Smoke Thins. Rubble Cools. Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Smoke thins. Rubble cools.
Sirens hush beneath rebuilt streets.
Headlines flee to newer grief.
Panels bicker. Archives compress horror
to a yearly footnote. Names fade from news—
not from the Record: indelible ink,
unburnt page, unfading Witness.

Earth yields its buried: bones,
lullabies cut short, dreams
mid-breath. Seas disgorge.
Mountains unclench. History
molts its edited skins.

Skies rend—sans spin,
satellites, commentary.
Witnesses pure. Truths laid bare.
Intentions exposed.

Hands speak what they held; tongues
own their justifications. Power
stands bare—sans podium, anthem, flag.

A Voice from Justice's Throne:
eternal in weight, conscience-clear,
timeless—بِأَيِّ ذَنبٍ قُتِلَتْ

Silence where excuses thundered.
The question to the world—not the slain:
watchers, calculators,
approvers, turnaways.

Smoke thins. Rubble cools.
Empires become memoir; statues gleam
innocent.

The Record opens. Dust rises—
uncorrupt, unrevised,
fixed—before the All-Knowing.
Evidence needs no defense.

MyKoul

March 5,2026