A Catacomb Country

They called it a nation,

but it was really a catacomb of matchsticks, 

a temple of embers,

millions of heads lacquered in red obedience,

lined shoulder to shoulder,

kneeling not in prayer,

but in expectation and anticipation of fire.

And when one flame burst at the edge,

it was not condemned.

No.

It was weaponized.

Suddenly it was not arson, 

it was destiny.

Not combustion, 

but covenant.

Not death, 

but deliverance.

Because once fire is labelled holy,

it no longer requires apology.

It only requires fuel.

The crowd bent forward as one,

every head tilted like pilgrims at an altar,

yearning to be consumed.

For in the Republic of Ashes,

citizenship is measured in dust,

and democracy means

all throats choke equally.

They sang in silence,

a choir of sulfur,

each head dreaming of its own immolation, 

for nothing unites like being burned the same way.

And so the Republic thrived,

not on justice,

not on freedom,

but on the promise

that every body would one day glow red,

before collapsing into grey.

Among them sat a boy,

a shadowchild of innocence,

smuggled past the border of belief.

In his hands

a paper dove,

creased wings folded from trembling hours,

a fragile scripture,

a forbidden gospel of truce.

The dove stirred,

as though memory itself longed for air,

but in this land, flight was treason.

Peace was banned literature.

Mercy was outlawed vocabulary.

And innocence was contraband,

smuggled only through children

who had not yet been taught to strike.

The matchsticks hissed at him:

“Peace is what we strike first.

Doves are for monuments,

and monuments are for ruins.

Keep your origami at the border, child;

here, we only deal in flame.”

The fire advanced,

chanting its eternal liturgy, 

“Unity.

Tradition.

Sacrifice.”

Holy words,

repeated so often they lost their weight,

and gained only smoke.

The boy listened,

and in their anthems he heard the truth:

that nations are kindling disguised as kingdoms,

that mobs are matches with voting rights,

that rulers sell fire as freedom,

and history is written

not in ink,

but in the memories of ash.

He clutched his dove tighter,

knowing it would never fly.

For in the Republic of Ashes,

birds are not set free.

They are clipped, folded,

and fed to the flames;

a ritual sacrifice to prove

that the fire still believes.

And the boy glimpsed, 

through smoke older than history itself, 

and it dawned at the dusk of his innocence

that this had always been the way of nations.

That every empire is a torch passed hand to hand,

until hands are gone.

That every anthem is smolder sung aloud.

That every monument is only stone,

waiting to be blackened by smoke.

The flame crept closer.

The matches leaned in, eager.

And the boy,

with his trembling paper dove,

realized the oldest prophecy of all:

That in the end,

every nation is a republic of ashes,

every people a parliament of fire,

every child a castaway of innocence

holding a bird

that no one ever lets fly.