Suhana Bhatta
The streets are wild, the voices roar,
a kingdom lost, they beg restore.
Flags like fire, hearts like stone,
marching where the past was thrown.
Smoke and screams cut through the night,
batons strike, but so does fight.
Blood on banners, fear in air,
yet no one stops, no one spares.
A journalist falls, truth torn apart,
ink and red both stain his heart.
Tear gas bites, yet eyes don’t close,
the fire within still fiercely grows.
Fourteen thrones in sixteen years,
still the land just drowns in tears.
What was broken? What was gained?
Who still suffers? Who’s still chained?
Tinkune burns, the past revives,
a phoenix trapped but still alive.
Will this fire shape the dawn,
or turn to dust when hope is gone?
