“How Dare You?”
You destroyed my life
like you destroyed my ancestors’ —
quietly,
with borders,
with silence,
with polite conversations
that buried bodies without names.
You erased our language
with schools.
You stole our land
with papers.
You killed our pride
with your mirrors.
And then you
kept living.
You smiled in the houses
built on our ruins.
You danced to songs
sung over our graves.
You made monuments
to yourselves
while we
carried the bones.
How dare you
walk so lightly
on the ground
that still remembers
the weight of our names?
How dare you
look at the sun
as if it shines equally on us?
How dare you
forget so easily
what I
will never be allowed to?
You destroyed my life.
And you inherited comfort.
But the earth is watching.
And silence
has never meant peace.