The Vanishing Cries

Beneath the moon's reluctant glow,

Where shadows stretch and whispers grow,

Another name is carved in pain,

Another voice we’ll never hear again.

Ibrahim Hilal, a beacon, a flame,

Reduced to a number, erased to a name.

Once he walked where courage led,

Now he lies cold, his dreams all bled.

In a morgue’s embrace, his story ends,

A life betrayed by those who pretend

To guard the people, to serve the land,

Yet bury truth with a ruthless hand.

Do you hear the mothers weep at night?

Do you see their tears in the fading light?

Each drop a plea, each sob a call,

For justice silenced, for freedoms that fall.

Oh, Mr. President, what have you done?

You wage a war against your own son.

You pluck the youth like flowers in bloom,

And plant their bodies in unmarked tombs.

They vanish like smoke, like dreams at dawn,

Stolen futures, forever gone.

And yet their silence screams in the air,

A haunting dirge, a heavy despair.

How many more must disappear?

How many more must die in fear?

The streets are empty, the hearts are cold,

Where once defiance stood bold.

We call your name, but you don’t reply,

You drown in power while others die.

You sow the seeds of grief and dread,

And reap a harvest of the dead.

But oh, tyrant, know this truth:

The cries you silence will take root.

For every life you claim with hate,

Ten more will rise to challenge fate.

The blood you spill is a sacred tide,

A testament to those who’ve died.

And though we mourn, though we lament,

We’ll build a future your reign won’t dent.

So hear us now, though our voices shake,

Stop killing our children for power’s sake.

For the cries of the lost will never cease,

Until this land finds its long-lost peace.

©Bunguswa™