Bunguswa Writes.

The night weeps, but not for them. A candle flickers, not in grief, but in quiet rebellion. The streets do not wear black, no dirges echo in the alleys. Only the sound of empty stomachs, growling like distant thunder, warning of a storm long ignored. Graves open, not with sorrow, but with laughter, bitter and sharp. For once, the earth does not mourn the weight of a fallen giant. It simply swallows, without tribute. They built walls so high, they could not hear the hunger, could not see the eyes, hollow like abandoned wells. They sat on golden thrones, while the streets became dust. Now the wind carries their names, whispers them without reverence. And the people, once voiceless, speak in unholy celebration, in songs of broken chains. A mother in the market sighs, not for the dead, but for the living, for the child clinging to her ribs, a question in his sunken eyes— Shall we eat today? And still, they wonder why the drums beat, why laughter spills into the night, why the p...

Do not carve sorrow into stone, do not kneel at the shrine of broken yesterdays. The past is a weeping god, thirsty for your tears, but you are not its worshipper, you are the wind meant to wander. Shatter the chalice of regret, let its poison kiss the dust. Unbind the ghost hands clutching your ribs, for memories should be lanterns, not shackles rusting in the marrow. You were never made for mourning altars, never meant to cradle wounds like relics. Let the river of time cleanse your scars, whisper your sorrow to the ocean’s ear, watch it swallow grief without question. See how dawn spills gold upon your skin, how the trees undress without shame, how the sky does not beg the stars to stay. Even the moon lets go of its light, trusting the sun will return. So unlace your heart from yesterday’s grip, step away from the temple of sorrow. Do not build a home where only echoes live, for the wind calls your name forward, not back to the dust of the undone. Let go, as autumn unbut...