Before It Had a Name

On blood, silence, and what remains

Beneath the shadowed skies of a restless land, the dreams of youth lie buried deep within the dust—shattered by the relentless weight of ruthless hands. Yet even in the silence that follows, these dreams whisper softly and ignite with a quiet fire.

Once, their voices roared like the mighty sea, fierce and unyielding, but now they are hushed beneath storms of fear and pain. Still, like seeds lying beneath frozen earth, their dreams wait patiently—for the warmth of the sun, for the gentle fall of rain.

These dreams were never theirs alone; they have always been the heartbeats of a nation long confined—a yearning for freedom’s radiant throne, a light that no dark cage can ever bind.

Though bullets silenced their mortal songs, hope continues to flow through the veins of those who remain—those who fight for justice with enduring strength, planting tomorrow’s promise from the ashes of today’s pain.

The wounds run deep, the scars spread wide, yet dreams refuse to die beneath the shroud of night. They pulse within hearts where courage never fades—a flicker, a flame, a promise of light.

And even when the night seems endless and heavy, the dreams of youth rise—steadfast, brilliant—a testament that beyond the cruelest wrongs, hope lives eternal, defying the darkness.