Flags Fold Silence

Victimhood is a cloak  
stitched with selective memory.  
Some wear it to stay warm—  
from colonial frost,  
from drone-fire winters,  
from the silence of graves  
that never made the news.  

Others wear it to hide the knife—  
of holy rage,  
of unasked questions,  
of verses bent into blades.  

It flutters in sermons,  
billows in protests,  
and sometimes wraps a child  
before the cameras arrive.  

It drinks moonlight in Gaza,  
sleeps in the alleys of Lahore,  
and dances with shadows  
in the ruins of Mosul.  

It smells of burnt parchment,  
of ink turned to ash,  
of chants that echo  
but never answer.  

Tailors of the cloak  
work in madrasa silence—  
snipping context,  
hemming grief,  
embroidering vengeance  
with thread soaked in prophecy.  

It is worn in Paris,  
in Mumbai,  
in New York,  
in Dhaka.  
It travels faster than mercy.  

It drinks blood in synagogues,  
laughs in churches,  
and whispers in temples:  
“You are next.”  

It teaches the young  
to chant death  
before they learn to spell it.  

It folds into flags,  
unfolds into coffins,  
and drapes itself  
across the eyes of the devout.  

It does not weep.  
It does not explain.  
It does not end.  

It waits.  
It listens.  
It chooses.  
It returns.