Silence Wears a Robe of Peace
But in its folds, injustice breathes.
They said, “I stayed silent, I caused no harm,”
But silence itself is a loaded arm.
Not every wound is made by hand —
Some are carved when voices fail to stand.
The gate was open, the thief walked in,
Not bold — just met with silent sin.
The watchman slept, the wise withdrew,
And truth was buried, out of view.
No sword was drawn, no blood was shed,
Yet dreams were crushed, and hope lay dead.
A child unheard, a plea ignored —
A silent judge, a rusted sword.
They watched injustice rise like flame,
But turned away — and felt no shame.
For comfort, rank, or fear of loss,
They left the weak to bear the cross.
The liar grew in silence fed,
While truth grew pale, and slowly bled.
The press, the courts, the legal books —
All wore the same indifferent looks.
And when the cries grew loud and raw,
They preached of peace, not broken law.
But peace that costs the victim’s voice
Is not peace — it’s just a choice.
So know this truth, and know it well:
Silence can build a prison cell.
Not every war needs bombs or knives —
Sometimes, silence takes the lives.
خاموشی امن کا لباس پہنتی ہے
مگر اسی کے دامن میں ناانصافی سانس لیتی ہے