Her voice cut sharp, her anger wide,
A shout that pierced, a wound that cried.
“Go back to where you once belonged,”
The words like stones, unjust and wrong.
They stood, hands clasped, their gaze held steady,
A silence thick with hurt already.
No shout, no spite repaid her call,
Just quiet pain that draped them all.
But how could she shed that load so swift,
The yoke her kin bore, scorned and rift?
Her kind were mocked, accused, defamed,
Their dreams dismissed, their blood renamed.
She knew the sting of hissed deceit,
The sneers that slashed down crowded streets.
She knew the fear of eyes that glare,
Yet still she cast that wounded stare.
The scar endures, the venom clots,
And rage once turned can leave us lost.
But breaking free demands a choice,
To choke the hate and loose your voice.
No hand should shove as hers was once,
No scorn should echo pain’s old dance.
The wounds she bore should mend, not spread,
Or else she carves their bitter bed.
She paused, her gaze caught on their frame,
The weight of grace igniting shame.
For hate she’d known could fade, not grow,
If she rebuilt what scorn tore low.
