A Bird That Forgot To Sing

"A Bird That 

Forgot To Sing"

Exactly 445 words to describe a 'nationalist'. 

Very simple words for the ones who actually wish to understand.

There was once a land, not just a place on a map—

but a heartbeat stitched in golden threads.

A country that breathed in poetry,

spoke in spice-laced winds,

and danced with the rhythm of monsoons.

It was whole.

It was warm.

It was enough.

Trade routes bloomed like jasmine vines,

hands met hands not to harm,

but to build, to bond,

to be.

But something dark watched too long—

an eye that never blinked,

that crept in with smiles that curdled,

and fists too quick to fall.

They came not to share,

but to rule.

Not to learn,

but to erase.

They pressed their weight onto the soil,

until blood replaced the rivers,

and hope became a ghost,

hollow-eyed and unheard.

People bowed, not in prayer,

but in chains.

Begging not for grace,

but for breath.

Yet sparks survived.

In whispers. 

In fists.

In songs passed secretly between jail cell bars.

Some stood.

Some fell.

Some disappeared,

but the voice of freedom grew louder than their guns.

And when the chains shattered—

we didn’t just lose captors,

we lost ourselves.

We tore maps with shaking hands.

Sliced our mother’s body,

by name, by caste, by script, by sky.

Each cut deeper than the last.

We called it independence.

But what we found…

was a war that never truly ended.

Terror bred in our backyards.

Brothers wore masks to murder.

Sisters wept under flags they once sewed.

And the world watched, entertained,

as we turned festivals into funerals.

This is no longer the land of gold.

It’s rusted.

Drunk on politics.

Addicted to rage and forgetting.

Relationships rot in silence.

People care only if there’s gain,

or a camera,

or a scandal.

And I ask—

where do you see a difference

in the heartbeats on an operation table?

Do arteries whisper a religion?

Does blood know a border?

How does a bullet pause to check last names?

Does hunger skip a meal

because the hands that cooked it prayed differently?

No.

This hate is staged.

Crafted in conference rooms,

fed to us like poison laced in sugar.

Do not bring your scripture to justify murder.

There is no verse that sanctifies slaughter.

No god that smiles at blood.

So what now?

We start where we can.

With ourselves.

With fists not raised in violence,

but in readiness.

We train.

We speak.

We protect.

Because a few hundred cannot save millions.

But millions, awake,

can change everything.

And maybe, just maybe—

one day we’ll walk freely again.

Laugh without glancing over our shoulders.

Visit parks without fear,

hold hands without hesitation,

and hear the bird sing again.

Not in golden pride,

but in peace.

-Himzy

I'm just a writer, who can convey and support through my words.

Your little cooperation and sharing it as much as possible may bring some change & positivity.

I don't know who'll think what but for me, I wrote in place of every 'nationalist', present out there.