
What is the legacy we leave behind,
what is the story history find,
when death and destruction paint their somber frame
and leaders act as if it is a game?
When maps are marked with lines of flame,
and every side assigns the blame,
while quiet graves and silent names
are whispered softly, none the same.
Will history write of flags held high,
or mothers asking simply why?
Of speeches strong and banners flown,
or empty streets where seeds were sown?
For time will judge what we defend—
the wars we start, the peace we mend.
And long after the drums have died,
it’s truth, not power, that will decide.
So what remains when dust has blown?
Not thrones of steel nor crowns of stone
but whether, in our darkest hour,
we chose our conscience over power

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