(a poem for the hills that remember)

There is a silence the world cannot name—

a silence not born of fear,

but of memory,

and men who have seen too much to speak.

Between the spears,

hung gently on bamboo walls,

something waits.

Not war.

Not peace.

Something older.

The boy in Mon sharpens wood not for battle,

but because his father did.

And his fath...

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