BLOODY DIARY

On the worn pages of the bloody diary, lie the remnants of screams, inked in fury. Not poetry, but scattered tears— from empty stomachs and weary, repeated steps. Children chew on dust, while the palace feasts without rest. Fields are plundered under the guise of law, the people strangled by fragrant promises. The leader smiles with gleaming charm, yet hears not the echo of approaching footsteps. No blood stains his clothes, only fresh ink drawn from the nation's wounds. Workers etch it at the tip of a hoe, mothers tuck it into their stiff embraces. Each letter pulses with the strain of resistance, beneath the darkness of silent roads. One day, the sky will read this diary, and lightning will weep across the horizon of pain. Not a curse, but a prayer will rise— that tyranny may fall to a patient voice. Pemimpin berwajah senyum mengilap, namun telinganya tuli terhadap derap. Darah bukan noda di bajunya, tap