I Am No Distant Solitude

I steal the greedy gaze of envious men,
to shape a shelter—bright, unbroken—
to carve into this earth a dream unblinking,
and through the wreckage, build a land of fire and dawn.

I slit the swollen guts of liars and thieves,
the fat kings choking on their gold,
to dress the wounds of the world in calm,
to seed the soil with truth where their rot once grew.

Now I stand—a blade, a vow, a storm,
my poem a nation’s spine, its cry, its rising.
I am no distant solitude.
I am the hand that burns.