Best Regards

A note from the comfortable side of catastrophe.

---

We made you.  
Not metaphor.  
We flew in quietly  
and bent your country to a use.  
Your cruelty was the feature,  
not the fault.  
We looked away  
because the oil moved west  
and that was enough.  
When the boiler burst  
we performed surprise.  
We are good at that.  

And the one who needs a crowd...
Not an enemy.  
...an audience.  
The victim is the prop.  
The killing is the proof  
of how large you are.  
I saw this.  
I stepped back.  
Not from ignorance...
from the knowledge  
that they chose you.  
Ignorance is a choice.  
So is who you elect.  

But history is patient.  
It waits  
in kitchens,  
in cellars,  
in the mouths of children  
who listen.  
A city becomes rubble.  
A house becomes memory.  
A father becomes a story  
told at a table.  
That story will travel  
longer than you. 

Best regards,  
the witnesses.  
Still here.


-UpsilonA 

Author’s Note
This poem reflects on the uncomfortable intersections of power, complicity, and historical memory. It explores how nations, institutions, and individuals participate—actively or passively—in cycles of violence, and how the consequences of those choices endure beyond the moment.

Ultimately, it is a reminder that witnesses, and the stories they carry, outlast those who rely on silence.