Truth Remains Truth

Randhir Thiyam
Kangleipak, cradle of the Meiteis,
two thousand years crowned by kings
whose blood still breathes in the wind.
Ancestral voices still guard these hills and valleys,
their footsteps echoing through time’s long corridor.

Yet—from the shadows crawl
the dream-merchants of division,
crying for “separate homelands”
as if they were children of this soil.
But the soil knows its own—
and it does not know them.

Foreign seeds blown in
by history’s careless wind,
narco-lords and brown-sugar barons,
building fortresses of heroin and gunmetal,
arming their delusions with bribes and bullets.

They write false scriptures on the walls of Google,
trying to auction history to the highest bidder,
inking lies in counterfeit ink,
as if truth could be bullied into silence.

But white is still white,
black is still black—
and the river of truth runs clear,
no matter how much mud the liars throw.

You cannot bend the sun into a shadow,
nor turn gold into rust with your tongue.
Truth remains truth—
and the rest will crumble
like counterfeit coins in the palm of time.