There is a silence that is not silence
It is the air that refuses to enter
It is the footsteps that echo in empty corridors
the time that drags, heavy
like a body that no longer feels

Fascism does not come with noise
It comes with the absence of song
with the hand that closes around the throat
and says, "This is not pain. This is order."

But there is a light that insists
A tiny light, almost imperceptible
like the tremor of a leaf before the storm
It does not shine for everyone
It shines for those who still know
that freedom is not a place
but a gesture

A gesture of opening the hand
of letting the air enter
of saying, even without a voice:
"I am here.
I am still here."