鐮刀與斧頭之下

它從不發出聲音。
那道弧線——冰冷，精準——
切割過無數個黎明。

地平線以下，韭菜們
早已習慣卑微的姿勢，
迎向那規律的收割。

他們以為「生長」是意義，
卻忘了，被馴服的綠意
終將成為刀刃下的
養分、肥料、耗材。

沒有呼喊，沒有反抗，
只有風，吹過空蕩的根部，
攜著泥土與未來的寒意。

當刀刃失效，
當有根鬚試圖深扎——
斧頭便自陰影中擲下。

它帶來一場暴烈、
而赤裸的審判。
不服從的頭顱被劈開，
連同所有不安分的想法。

鮮血不是代價，
它是警告，是油彩。
塗滿旗幟的底色，
讓每一個抬頭仰望的人
都清晰看見——
紅，是唯一的律法。

我們都是這風景的一部分：
一面是收割的田野，
一面是威懾的刑場。

在鐮刀與斧頭
構成的巨大陰影裡，
沒有「選擇」這兩個字。

腳下的路，
通往下一季的生長，
或下一次的碎裂。

而我們，卑微地喘息著，
知道在這面
染血的布幔之下——

生與死，
都毫無出路。

唯有沉默，
才是長久的活著。

Beneath the Sickle and the Axe

It never makes a sound.
That curve—cold, precise—
has sliced through countless dawns.

Beneath the horizon, the leeks
have long learned their humble posture,
facing the rhythm of harvest.

They thought that growing was meaning,
forgetting that the tamed green
exists only to become
nourishment, compost, waste
beneath the blade.

No cry. No resistance.
Only wind
whispers through hollow roots,
carrying the scent of soil
and the chill of tomorrow.

When the blade grows dull,
when roots dare to dig deeper—
the axe descends from shadow.

It brings a violent,
naked judgment.
The disobedient are split apart,
along with every restless thought.

Blood is not a price—
it is a warning, a pigment,
painted into the flag’s foundation,
so that every gaze turned upward
will see clearly:
Red is the only law.

We are all part of this scenery:
one side, the field of harvest;
the other, the stage of terror.

Beneath the vast shadow
of sickle and axe,
there are no words
for “choice.”

The road beneath our feet
leads to another season’s growth—
or another shattering.

And we,
breathing humbly,
know that beneath
this blood-soaked banner,

life and death
share the same silence.

Only silence
endures as survival.