“They strip the streets of sound, then call it safety.”

They draw the lines and call it order, stamp the margins “safe,”
Erasing names from yesterday to forge a blank-walled place.
Households whisper histories they learned by hearth and hand,
Now algorithms prune the orchards, cut the roots from land.

When voices dress in armor, they become the crime —
Silence legislated, patience sold as crime.

We will shout the archive back, we will cobble every page,
Light the rooms they shuttered up, call the lost names from the cage.
You cannot grid our memory, you cannot mute the song —
We raise our hands, we raise our voices — we will right what you made wrong.

You weaponize a whisper, call dissent a threat,
Paper choked with fines, the square infected with regret.
They sell a tidy future wrapped in scripted, glossy lies,
While the battered corners of the map still keep their histories alive.

“It’s not interference — it’s protection,” they announce from glass towers—
But protection is a ledger that prices out the poor and the powerless.

If freedom is a language, then our mouths must be the proof.
If truth is a ledger, then our hands will write the truth.

We will thread the lost words into banners, stitch them into roofs.

NO FINE CAN BUY A NAME
NO LAW CAN SEAL A VOICE
WE’LL SPEAK IN STORM AND SHADOW
WE’LL MAKE THE SILENCE NOISE

We do not call for war — only for speech to breathe,
For neighborhoods to keep their stories, for children to believe.

We will shout the archive back, we will cobble every page,
Light the rooms they shuttered up, call the lost names from the cage.
You cannot grid our memory, you cannot mute the song —
We raise our hands, we raise our voices — we will right what you made wrong.

They can fine the platforms, silence feeds the machine —
But the archive lives in mouths, in hands, in streets between.
So speak. Record. Repeat. Resist the paper tomb.
We will fill the ledger with the names you tried to lose.

SHOUT THE ARCHIVE BACK

Fragmented