The Last Broadcast

This is the last broadcast. This is the final hour. Ash falls like winter On the bones of towers. We speak from broken cities, From shorelines lost to flame From silence where the children No longer know our name. We did not fall in fire at once, Not in a single night We fell in quiet increments, In apathy’s dim light. We traded truth for comfort, We let division grow, We fed the drums of anger Till they learned to thunder so That mercy could not answer. That reason could not stand. Until the voice of hatred Was the loudest in the land. If you can still hear this Then this is not the end. This is not a eulogy It is a chance to mend. Turn from the thrill of outrage. Turn from the lie made sweet. Turn from the slow corrosion Of cruelty made elite. No tyrant rules a people Who refuse to kneel in fear. No darkness long survives When citizens are clear. We are not ghosts yet speaking. We are not ash and bone. This “last” broadcast you’re hearing Is not from overthrown It is from now. From streets you walk today. From choices made in silence. From words you choose to say. Hate is not inevitable. Collapse is not ordained. The future is a verdict That has not yet been named. Speak before the silence. Stand before the fall. Bridges can be mended But only if we call. Let discourse rise like daylight Let mercy take the field Let courage be contagious Let hardened voices yield We are the generation History will defend Or we will be the authors Of an unforgiving end If you can still hear this Then hope is still alive. The end is not a sentence If we choose to survive. This is the last broadcast… Unless we change the tone. The future is not written. It is spoken. It is spoken.