If I Returned

If I died,  

not in surrender but in protest—  

let my soul dissolve in the soil,  

and reform in fire,  

veins braided with truth,  

fingertips steeped in knowing.

I’d come back not to haunt,  

but to tend.  

To coax roots through rubble,  

and stitch the sky where sirens tore holes.

I’d be wind in the courtroom,  

breathing judgment over silk-tongued tyrants,  

a shadow at their elbows  

whispering the names they buried.

Let my spine be a river  

cutting through propaganda,  

my eyes—sunlight on withheld crops,  

forcing growth in places cruelty tried to scorch.

I wouldn’t wear a crown.  

I’d wear moss.  

Speak in thunder.  

Move like truth  

when truth is tired of being polite.