I was born where mornings rise

through roads and smoke,

where dreams wear borrowed uniforms

and courage learns to cope.

I learned the language of rain,

the patience of the tree,

and mothers’ quiet strength,

who give their last to set us free.

The world said, “Know your place.”

I asked, “Who built the walls?”

Then gathered fallen stone

to build a bridge, not walls.

I have seen hope in tired faces,

in hands that give,

in children turning empty pages

into reasons to live.

My country is a restless drum

beneath a sky;

yet every dawn, her people rise

and teach the earth to try.

I am not what I suffer,

nor the limits others see.

I am a question still unfolding,

the answer I am yet to be.

Let them count my failures;

I will rise whenever I fall.

I will turn each scar to scripture

and write my story on the wall.

For stars are born in darkness,

and voices still can fly.

So when tomorrow calls my name,

I will answer without fear.

I will arrive with open hands

and leave something brighter here.

I was never made to vanish.

I am a flame burning here.