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,

ransom paid in American dollars,

camouflaged by your god

as if that might shield you?

Was it worth it—

sailing toward the edge

of your own mythology,

toward a people who chose

not to be written

into your story,

who have guarded their silence

for over sixty thousand years?

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.