The Harbinger’s Lament

Through ruins of what was promised,
I walk with seeds of defiance
Hidden in my threadbare pockets,
Each step an elegy,
Each breath a prophecy.

The landscape bleeds memories —
Here stood the unions’ halls,
There burned the people’s libraries,
While overhead, carrion birds
Circle democracy’s corpse.

I am the unwanted messenger,
The voice that cracks comfort’s mirror,
Sowing tomorrow’s uprising
In soil salted with tears,
In fields fouled by greed.

My cloak is woven from
The shadows of fallen comrades,
Its hem heavy with the weight
Of battles lost and brewing,
Of dreams deferred but never dead.

Watch me plant rebellion’s seeds
In midnight’s secret gardens:
One for the striker’s broken bones,
One for the migrant’s last breath,
One for every child who learned
Too soon about hunger.

I may not live to see them bloom —
These flowers of resistance,
These thorny shoots of justice
Breaking through concrete and despair.
Yet still I sow.

For I am the harbinger,
The keeper of forbidden hope,
The guardian of dangerous memory,
Walking the wasteland
Between what was and what must be.

My lament is a battle song,
My tears water revolution’s roots,
And though my feet grow weary
From bearing witness,
I cannot rest while history bleeds.

So I walk on, scattering
Tomorrow’s ammunition:
Seeds of rage and remembrance,
Of solidarity and strength,
Until the earth itself rebels
Against its poisoned sleep.

Let them call me prophet of doom —
I know I plant dawn’s first light,
Even as darkness claims me,
Even as my voice grows hoarse
With singing freedom’s dirge.

For the seeds will remember
What my bones forget:
That hope, like weeds,
Grows strongest in the ruins,
And revolution blooms eternal
In the gardens of the damned.