On the silent night roof, I asked a question to the sky that stretched like an old wound that never healed.
"Why is this world so quiet even though it is full of screams?"
"Why is justice only a shadow, while injustice sits on a magnificent throne?"

The sky was silent.
The stars twinkled as if avoiding me.
The clouds passed without any intention of explaining.
The wind just passed by, like a friend who didn't know what to say.
I kept asking—until my heart became an echo that bounced into my own chest.

And one night, I saw an old man setting aside bread for street children, without speaking, without expecting anything in return.
Suddenly, the sky seemed to answer—not with a voice, but with a sign: that the answer is the hand that moves, not the lips that speak.
So I came down from the roof, and began to learn to answer the world with silent, but meaningful actions.

Slipi, May 22nd 2025. 9:26 PM (GMT +7)