I remember a world with slow steps,
where georgem was a bridge, not a weapon,
and the outstretched hand did not require evidence,
but only a heart that knew how to beat.

Now your need for cameras,
because the noise said it all.
Now your need for laws,
because honor was the unwritten law.

Today, silence is suspect,
gentleness – a dullness,
and each soul carries a mask
with a smile drawn into the corners of fear.

We judge so as not to be judged,
strandagem proofs so as not to be alone,
sell our souls on likes,
and forget that man is not an algorithm.

But in the fraternities,
a memory still flickers
–not perfect, but alive:

when love was a path, not a destination,
and honor – breathing, now decoration.

Maybe revolution is not a cry,
but a whisper that says: "I see you."
Maybe salvation is not a system,
but a heart that refuses to become a shadow.

And maybe, one day,
we will feel again
that being about
is harder – and more difficult –
than having a vision.