They sharpen quills like blades of war,
On parchment laid with careful hands,
A thousand truths lie at the door,
Only one is what withstands.
Names are chosen, names are cut,
Some are burned, some are raised high,
What is written stays alive—
What is not is left to die.
History is not a record,
It’s a weapon forged in ink,
A crown of lies, a shield of words,
To make the mighty never blink.
Every page a loaded blade,
Every line a silent threat,
History is not a record—
It’s the dead we don’t forget.
Battles won with broken men,
Become a tale of righteous flame,
The screams are trimmed, the blood erased,
But the victors keep the name.
Ask the stones, they saw it all,
Ask the ash, it never lies,
But stone can’t speak and ash won’t write—
So the story learns to side.
History is not a record,
It decides who gets to stand,
Who is crowned a martyr’s name,
Who is dust across the land.
When the past is pulled like steel,
Pointed at tomorrow’s head,
History is not a record—
It’s a weapon aimed ahead.
