They burned the names, they broke the seals,
Then called it “peace” at dawn,
Built monuments of spotless stone
Where screams had stained the lawn.
The victors washed their hands in time,
Let memory drift away,
And wrote themselves as saviors
In the ash of yesterday.
The dead don’t argue footnotes,
The fallen leave no pen,
And guilt grows quiet when it learns
To dress itself as “then.”
History’s ink is not the truth,
It’s what the living bear,
The ones who walked away intact
And learned to call it fair.
The past was shaped by trembling hands
That could not face their crime—
So they survived the guilt, not war,
And named the lie as time.
They taught the children cleaner tales,
With heroes carved in gold,
Left out the cries, the broken vows,
The bargains never told.
Every page a mercy granted
To the ones who still could sleep,
While bones beneath the riverbed
Kept promises they couldn’t keep.
If truth were kinder than the lie,
It wouldn’t need to hide,
And every scar the world forgot
Would still be there inside.
History’s ink is not the truth,
It’s what the living bear,
The ones who walked away intact
And learned to call it fair.
The past was shaped by trembling hands
That could not face their crime—
So they survived the guilt, not war,
And named the lie as time.
Listen close when statues crack,
When songs go suddenly still—
What was erased is speaking now,
And always, always will.
One day the ink will run like blood,
The margins tear apart,
And all the names they buried deep
Will rise from memory’s dark.
For history belongs to none
Who wrote it just to live—
The truth waits for the brave enough
To feel what they forgive.
