North Sentinel Island

Was it worth it—

this uninvited longing

to shape the destiny of others,

to save those

who never asked to be found?

Was it worth it—

crossing the Styx

in a fisherman’s boat,

American dollars for ransom,

camouflaged by your god

as if faith could shield you?

Was it worth it—

sailing toward the edge

of your own mythology,

toward a people

who have guarded their silence

for over sixty thousand years,

defying empire,

fire in their hands

long before you arrived?

Was it worth it—

when metal arrows

ripped through certainty,

punctured soul,

shredded calling,

deflated ego,

martyred the myth

you mistook for purpose?

Was it worth it—

the brutal end,

no god descending

to mute the war cries,

no psalm strong enough

to drown ancestral thunder,

no mercy

for your trembling tongue?

Was it worth it—

this eternal forgetting?

“Too young to die,” they said—

but death is old,

and you are buried

in scorched sand

on a shore

that never

needed

saving