The Revolution of Broken Hearts

Trump is president again

and I don’t know where to start, 

from Sudan to Palestine, 

it feels like the world is falling apart.

When the systems of oppression feel 

too strong to outsmart, 

how do we console the families 

of the activists who died of a broken heart?

Do we whisper their names in the wind,

let them carry through the streets?

Do we march until our voices break,

or mourn in quiet retreats?

The news is a relentless tide,

each headline sharper than the last.

History feels like a cruel circle,

repeating wounds from the past.

But somewhere in the rubble, 

a child still dares to dream,

of skies without the shadow of drones,

of rivers that run clean.

And though despair clings to our skin,

like smoke that won’t depart,

hope ignites in the ashes - 

the revolution of broken hearts.

For every activist silenced,

a thousand will rise and sing.

Their voices will shatter the silence, 

and freedom will take wing.

So let us hold each other close,

and let the grieving start. 

From pain, we’ll forge a better future -

the revolution of broken hearts.

Poem by Ruth Elora, The Mayfair Poet