If words were blades,
the air would drip red—
sentences slicing clean through
the lies,
the arrogance,
the smoke that poisons lungs.
If words could kill,
justice would whisper once,
and tyrants would fall silent.
No bombs, no blood,
just syllables sharp enough
to end the cruelty.
But words only bruise—
they haunt, they burn,
they echo in the mind.
And still I dream of a language
that slays the wicked,
while leaving the gentle
untouched.