Echo in the Agora

Sometimes — though rarely — I long to fade,

To slip through silence, unmade, unnamed.

At times I wish I’d never begun at all,

For I am forced to wear the label young —

Spoken like a verdict,

Branded like a flaw.

A curse disguised as blessing,

A halo edged with thorns.

Yet I choose to call it art —

A dangerous, delicate form.

A restless consciousness

That will not be erased,

That will not bow to trembling fears

Nor quietly lose its place.

It walks beside you like a friend,

Whispers loyalty and light —

Then strikes you from behind

In the deepest part of night.

And suddenly you’re bleeding.

Suddenly you kneel before your fate.

Yet truly, you are weightless —

Waiting. Thinking. Staring straight.

Legally a child —

Yet carrying thoughts too heavy for my age.

I speak when others swallow words

And lock them in a cage.

You call us selfish.

Spoiled. Dramatic.

Hungry for luxury like air.

We are rebels, so you say,

Too loud. Too bold. Too severe.

But Socrates once said the same

About the youth of his own year.

So here we stand — judged and misunderstood,

Generation after generation blamed.

And if I must be called “young,”

Let it not be said with disrespect —

Because youth is not a weakness.

It’s a spark in dry air.

It’s the crack in your system.

It’s the voice that won’t stay quiet.

It’s the echo in the agora -

That refuses to be ignored.

Herki Hanna X. H