Something in the Blood
Ignited Fire in the belly
We didn’t come this far to bow — to silence nor sorrow.
There’s something in the blood — feral, unyielding — a rhythm that refuses to hush.
Every setback taught us — tensile snap of bending without breaking.
We’ve swallowed storms — worn grief like armor, and still — we rise,
cracked open but luminous.
We speak in the dialect of scar tissue — not bitter, but fluent
in what it means to keep breathing — air burning thin.
Look —
the horizon doesn’t wait for permission.
It erupts.
So we chase — fists full of light — mouths full of names we refuse to forget.
Hope isn’t soft — it’s sinew.
It’s bootprints in frozen mud — a pulse beneath the rubble — a shout through teeth clenched against the wind.
We are not fragile things.
We are forged.
And tonight — stars blinking in approval — dragging our stories,
still burning — into the next dawn. Something of — fiery rhythm — Blood Remains.
~Ani Po
