They rise in the wind,
colors stretching toward the sky,
symbols of pride, of power,
of belonging and division.
They wave over victories,
flutter over ruins,
carried by hands that believe,
or by hands that obey.
Some are raised in hope,
some in warning,
some to mark a place
that was never truly ours.
But when the wind dies,
when the hands let go,
they are just cloth,
folding into silence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem