Feast of the Forsaken

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 people dance, not in joy,

but in the only way hunger allows—

a feast of the forsaken.

©Bunguswa™