I stood where echoes feed on stone,
where verdicts wear robes of delay.
They called it duty, I called it dusk—
the hour when silence learns to speak.
My hands held systems,
not swords.
My battles were made of questions,
my wounds—of withheld replies.
They said: wait.
The wind will change.
But I am not a leaf.
I am the tree that chose to shed.
Resignation is not a letter.
It is the breath between two truths:
the one they write,
and the one I live.
I do not die in the arena.
I dissolve from it—
like ink from a forgotten decree,
like fire from a cold rebellion.
Now, I teach with ash and light.
And if they ask where I went,
tell them:
he walked out
wearing his own name.
