Fall Of Tyrants

The locusts will perish,
but not before the fields are ravaged.
Tyrants may fall,
yet their shadows linger,
etching scars into the earth,
into the hearts of generations.
Mussolini, the would-be Caesar,
dreamed of empires,
of glory resurrected from ancient dust.
He marched with Hitler,
dragging Italy into fire,
crushing dissent beneath his boot.
But no throne built on blood
can stand forever.
When the war turned,
he fled, a broken man,
disguised, desperate,
clinging to his mistress,
who stayed, loyal to the end.
Yet loyalty could not save them.
The partisans came,
their rifles cold and just.
No trial, no ceremony—
just a wall and the crack of bullets.
The people, long oppressed,
demanded more.
In Piazzale Loreto,
they strung him up,
a tattered effigy of his own undoing.
Blood dripped from his mouth,
mingling with the spit of the people,
as history settled its debt.
A woman, robbed of her family,
struck his lifeless face—
justice, brutal and unrelenting.
Hitler, in his bunker,
heard the news and trembled.
He saw the fate of his ally,
the wrath of the oppressed,
and chose his own end.
A gunshot,
a pyre of petrol,
no trace left for the mob.
Tyrants rise,
but they always fall.
Their power is a mirage,
their legacies, ash.
But history does not cleanse itself overnight;
the wounds of conquest fester,
the cries of the oppressed echo.
And still, the world burns—
Gaza, a land besieged,
smothered beneath iron rain.
The air choked with dust and sorrow,
children sleep beneath fallen stone,
their names whispered in wailing prayers.
A land suffocated, strangled,
its people deemed unworthy
of breath, of light—
and the world watches,
silent, complicit.
But history whispers:
"Tyrants may reign in horror,
but they are not immortal."
Their towers of arrogance will crumble,
their names will rot in disgrace.
For those who fight for truth,
who give their lives for freedom,
are not erased,
but written in the winds,
in the cries of the living,
in the soil that will bloom again.
Allama Iqbal whispered:
"Life is beyond gain or loss;
it is existence,
it is surrender."
Tyrants may carve their names in stone,
but the wind will wear them away.
Their fate is etched in time’s decree,
their reigns but fleeting dust.
Yet those who stand for truth,
though they may fall,
rise again—
not in monuments,
but in the whispered breath of the free.

— MyKoul