(Inspired by “Glory and Fame” by David Rovics)

I have known your name through fire,
And through salt upon the land.
I held your breath in cotton dust,
And lifted you with blistered hands.

You rose beneath the whip’s command,
You fell beneath the gun.
You marched in chains through every age,
And still, you are not done.

You were scattered, you were beaten,
Hung from trees that sang of shame.
But every time they took your life,
You rose again — the same.

You spoke in tongues of struggle,
You whispered in the fields.
You bled into the sugarcane
Until the soil could feel.

You cried beneath the banners,
You danced before the flame.
You died without a monument,
But I remembered your name.

I found you in Soweto,
In Gaza’s silent street.
In factories without windows,
With blood beneath your feet.

You prayed while stones were falling,
You loved where hate was law.
You gave your last in silence,
But I saw.
Yes, I saw.

You are the first and final witness.
You are the heart beneath the pain.
And though the world forgets your face,
You shall rise again.

Not for glory, not for vengeance,
Not for thrones or flags or fame —
But to remind the sleeping earth
That God still breathes your name.

So rest if you must, but do not vanish.
The cycle calls you home.
For you are the pulse of Omnicyclion —
The All-in-One, returning, known.