Rising storms of the quiet sky,
Eyes full of light, and throats full of cry.
Their fists are filled with fury, and hearts with flame,
They’re tired of silence, and tired of shame.
They carry the weight of centuries past,
and break the chains that were meant to last.
In their anger, there’s a tender grace—
a fight for every stolen place.
For rage is love in another disguise,
a promise kept, a truth that flies.
Women of rage, unbowed, unbent—
The world will change wherever they went.
