Poetry: M. Jahangir Khan
In Thailand’s gentle breath of memory,
where palms whisper to history,
stands a garden of stone and soul—
Ho Chi Minh, alive in silence,
alive in the hearts of the people.
And far away, beneath African skies,
where the sun leans close to the earth,
Tanzania speaks in names of honor—
a stadium rising not of concrete,
but of remembrance and respect.
Names…
Not letters.
Not sounds.
But echoes of belonging.
Who names a place
without love?
Who carves a legacy
without reverence?
Yet here we stand—
at the edge of a question
sharp as shattered glass:
Why is power named
after destruction?
Why does the wind carry
a name heavy with storms—
a name that does not plant,
but burns?
O you—
builder of ashes,
warlord of noise,
shadow of thunder—
did the world ask for you?
Did history open its doors
for such a guest?
No—
for even chaos has a limit,
and even darkness
knows when to retreat.
But this—
this is a flood without shore.
A world drowning
in its own reflection,
where broken mirrors
multiply faces of ruin.
And worse—
the echo spreads.
In my land…
in your land…
in silent corners of the earth,
the same shadow walks,
wearing different names,
speaking the same cold language.
Yet still—
still there are hearts that refuse.
Hearts that remember
what it means to honor.
Hearts that guard
the names of their heroes
like sacred fire.
Not all is lost.
For somewhere—
beyond the noise,
beyond the iron and smoke—
a garden waits to be born.
An Iranian garden of love,
not fenced by power,
but opened by humanity.
On distant shores—
where Simón Bolívar’s dream still breathes,
where freedom once took root—
there we will plant it.
Not flags—
but hope.
Not weapons—
but seeds.
And from farmer to farmer,
from hand to hand,
from soul to soul—
a new diplomacy will rise.
Quiet.
Unarmed.
Unstoppable.
And then—
when the night grows tired
of its own darkness—
a sun will rise.
Not to conquer—
but to heal.
Not to erase memory—
but to cleanse injustice.
A sun
that will whisper to the world:
Names must bloom…
not burn.
