Vengeance Will Come
Vengeance will come,
quiet at first,
like fog crawling low over fields
that pretended they were clean.
The rivers will smell of rotten souls,
not because they were punished,
but because they were never washed.
They carried lies too long,
names without faces,
bones without graves.
The earth remembers footsteps
even when mouths deny them.
Stone remembers screams
pressed into it like fingerprints.
You can dam a river,
you can rename a crime,
you can teach children new words
for old blood—
but water always finds its way back.
This is not rage screaming in the dark.
This is time,
patient and exact.
Vengeance does not run.
It waits.
And when it arrives,
it does not ask who is innocent—
only who is buried underneath the silence.