The Bite of the Anopheles

In the belly of the dusk, when the moonlight limps,

A creature stirs with delicate limbs.

Silent wings and a needle-thin beak,

The Anopheles comes — pale, obscure, sleek.

Oh, she flies with purpose, for blood she seeks,

But not with hatred, not with deceit.

She does not slander, she does not lie,

She doesn’t curse, or make others cry.

She bites, yes — a sting and then done,

No grudge, no gossip under the sun.

But humans—oh humans! What venom they breed,

Their tongues are sabers, their words mislead.

They wear the mask of smile and peace,

But beneath it simmers a toxic grease.

They speak with honey, but inject despair,

Their sentences tangled like a devil’s snare.

Anopheles is blamed for death and disease,

For malaria's dance on a fevered breeze.

Yet she’s a saint when next to the man,

Who kills with a joke, a whisper, a plan.

Who stings not once but again and again,

And smiles while watching the soul feel pain.

A friend, a cousin, a brother, a mate —

The human bites with a charming gait.

He laughs, then mocks, then drinks your trust,

And buries your secrets deep in dust.

The Anopheles, at least, is brief,

But human harm is long and deep.

They bite your back when you turn to go,

Then shake your hand, put on a show.

They call you names in stylish code,

Then blame you for the lies they sewed.

Their poison’s not in bloodstream red,

But in every half-truth that they’ve said.

Oh, what are humans if not flies in disguise?

Buzzing with greed, ambition, and lies.

Each word a wound, each smile a plot,

Each greeting a snare, each gift a rot.

They drain your joy with practiced grace,

And spit in love’s own sacred face.

Do not blame the mosquito, dear soul,

She acts in nature, follows her role.

She does not wear a saint’s disguise,

Nor does she kiss with cobra eyes.

She does not preach what she’ll never be,

She is a mirror to humanity.

A man once stood with nobler light,

With truth his sword, and love his might.

He spoke with warmth, and lived with care,

A human, yes — but beautifully rare.

He offered hands, not fangs or flame,

He played no games, he sought no fame.

He saw in others not pawns or prey,

But brothers and sisters along the way.

His heart was soft, but spine of steel,

His words could wound, but chose to heal.

He had a choice to bite or bless,

He chose, instead, to curse no less.

But oh — that man is fading fast,

His echoes swallowed by the present's blast.

Where are the voices that once were kind?

Where is the calm in the human mind?

Where is the grace that held the weak?

Where is the strength to be humble and meek?

Today, the man is drunk with pride,

With envy swelled and hope denied.

He builds his empire on lies and fear,

And kills what’s tender, soft, and dear.

He stings with silence, maims with noise,

His toys are blood, his joys destroy.

He feasts on others’ broken dreams,

He wraps deceit in moral themes.

He gifts betrayal in sweet perfume,

And turns his love into a tomb.

He wears the crown of God and snake,

And blesses the very hearts he’ll break.

A mosquito feeds and leaves you still,

The human strikes to break your will.

He feeds on trust, not only blood,

He drags you down into his mud.

He chains your heart with clever charm,

Then writes your name into your harm.

Oh foolish man, you had the choice,

To be the hand, the home, the voice.

To guard, to give, to gently mend,

To be a brother, soul, and friend.

But you became the sharpest sting,

The dirtiest word, the darkest thing.

You forgot your own noble frame,

Now beast and shadow bear your name.

You lost the warmth of honest breath,

And danced your kin toward moral death.

What use is mind without the soul?

What’s left of man when black is whole?

The world once bloomed with your sweet grace,

Now deserts bloom where was your face.

You poisoned rivers with your spite,

And called your crimes the path of right.

You robbed the child of starry hope,

And hung her dreams on twisted rope.

Yet still — still there flickers a flame,

In some young hearts not fed by fame.

There still is man in man’s disguise,

A few who see with tender eyes.

A few who don’t return the bite,

Who choose to walk in softer light.

A few who ask before they take,

Who feel the world that others fake.

Who know a word can crush or lift,

And treat their tongue as holy gift.

Who greet the outcast with a bow,

And choose to plant where others plough.

They speak like streams — so calm, so clear,

They lend you faith, they bring you near.

They do not suck, they do not kill,

They let you choose, they guide your will.

They bless the air with every sound,

They are the rare — profoundly bound.

So let man rise from his own sting,

Let love again be crowned as king.

Let justice walk in humble thread,

And peace be sung where hate has bled.

Let kindness be the sword he swings,

And truth the song his spirit sings.

Let man remember he was born,

Not just to sting, but to adorn.

To be the balm, not be the bruise,

To lift, forgive, accept, and choose.

Let him not wear the mosquito's face,

But find again his human grace.

Anopheles, forgive our pride —

You bite and go, you do not hide.

But man, he bites with pretty grace,

And carves a smile into your face.

He wears the mask and plays the saint,

But all his colors — lies and paint.

So teach us, insect, though small you seem,

You are more honest than our dream.

You do not preach, nor fake your thirst,

You take your share — and not the worst.

Your sin is known, your harm is brief,

You do not feast on human grief.

But man, oh man, his words are knives,

He makes his meals from ruined lives.

He sings of peace while selling war,

He claims the light, yet bars the door.

His teeth are thoughts, his poison pride,

And every wound he makes — he hides.

The Anopheles, so slight, so small,

Cannot write laws, nor build a wall.

She cannot lie, nor cheat a friend,

Nor fake a vow, nor condescend.

She is no thief of dignity,

She is no god in mockery.

Yet man, who walks in lofty pride,

Has drained the world from side to side.

He draws from wells of others’ trust,

Then tramples virtue into dust.

He takes the rose, then burns the stem,

He crafts a throne, then curses them.

He builds his home on borrowed bones,

He weeps in glass, yet throws the stones.

He claims to love, but does not stay,

He smiles, then slowly fades away.

He says, “I’m here,” then walks the hour,

He breaks the stem and calls it flower.

He’s dressed in silk, but skin like thorn,

He’s dressed in light, but darkly born.

He knows the words of ancient grace,

But none reside within his face.

He quotes the saints, the gods, the wise,

But walks beneath a thousand lies.

The Anopheles does not pretend,

She does not marry to offend.

She does not mock the weak or small,

Or throw her kin against the wall.

She stings, but once, and then she flies,

Not like the man who stings with lies.

Oh, Man! You were meant to be the light,

A torch against the darkest night.

You were the echo of the skies,

The spark within the infant’s cries.

You were the song the angels sung,

The breath of God upon your tongue.

What happened, man? What have you done?

You traded stars for plastic sun.

You bit your kin, your lover, your seed,

You drank their joy, ignored their need.

You saw a soul, then made a game,

You painted masks and called them name.

Where is the man who helped the blind?

Who healed the hurt with heart and mind?

Where is the man who broke no vow?

Whose strength was in his gentlest brow?

Where is the voice that once forgave?

Now all is sharp, now all’s a grave.

Now sons bite fathers, mothers wound,

Now friends are snakes, in silence groomed.

Now neighbors glare with poisoned grin,

Now praise is just another sin.

Now every hand conceals a knife,

And every word, a double life.

The Anopheles, the world does fear,

But man injects far more severe.

He infects trust, corrodes the peace,

He makes your joys and dreams decrease.

And when you break, and when you fall,

He claps, then posts your pain to all.

Yes, his is not the tiny bite,

But storms that blind the soul from sight.

He plants a thought — a single doubt,

Then watches as you bleed it out.

He whispers rumors in the air,

And strips you gently of your care.

Yet somewhere deep within his core,

A voice still knocks at heaven’s door.

It begs to rise, to speak, to mend,

To be the warmth, the truth, the friend.

It asks, “Can I be good again?”

“Can love survive the bite of men?”

Yes! If man lays down his sword,

And listens not to hate’s accord.

If he reclaims the gift of speech,

To lift the low, to teach the weak.

If he can hold a child and weep,

And not just take — but learn to keep.

If he can speak without a sting,

And praise without imagining.

If he can give without a debt,

And love without the past's regret.

If he can see, and not just judge,

If he can walk and not begrudge.

The man of joy must rise again,

And wipe away the curse of men.

He must not speak in double voice,

He must not sting and call it choice.

He must not rule with bitter grip,

Nor trade his truth for ego’s sip.

He must be humble in his height,

And gentle though he holds the right.

He must defend, not dominate,

He must repair, not desecrate.

He must become the calming tide,

That makes the broken world abide.

The Anopheles knows no greed,

No lust for power, wealth, or deed.

She drinks to live, not to destroy,

She doesn’t feed on shattered joy.

Her crime is hunger — brief, unplanned,

But man burns cities with his hand.

So what is strength if not to heal?

What is a king if not to kneel?

What use is speech if words are blade?

What use is love if love’s betrayed?

What use are eyes if none can see,

The man he was — the man he’d be?

Be not the sting that scars the world,

Be not the hate in silence hurled.

Be not the word that makes men cry,

Be not the cause of souls that die.

Be not the bite that slowly kills,

But be the hand that softly stills.

Be like the wind that bends, not breaks,

Be like the flame that warms, not fakes.

Be like the rain that makes things grow,

Be like the truth, not just the show.

Be like the star — afar, yet near,

A guiding hope, a light sincere.

And let your words be gardens fair,

That bloom with kindness, scent the air.

Let not your tongue be fang or fang,

Let not your love be boomerang.

Speak not in storms, but gentle waves,

And build, not tear, the human graves.

For man was made not just to thrive,

But help the fallen stay alive.

To lift the soul, to calm the storm,

To offer heart — not just a form.

To be the song, not be the sting,

To be the joy — not suffering.

So next you curse the biting fly,

Recall who taught the world to cry.

Recall who burned and who forgave,

Who dressed like kings and acted knave.

Recall the wounds you could not see,

The silent deaths from tongues set free.

Oh, man, return! Return to light!

Abandon darkness, drop your fight.

Come not as stinger, thief, or sword,

But as a man — in soul restored.

Come not with fangs behind a grin,

But with the peace you hold within.

The Anopheles will fade with dawn,

Her poison pales as hours are drawn.

But yours, oh man, may never pass —

Until you break your biting glass.

Until you see that venom hides

Within your words, your glares, your prides.

So choose, today, what you shall be —

A plague of hate, or remedy.

A thief of hope, or light reborn,

A voice of war, or gentle morn.

The choice is yours — in hand, in face,

To bring the sting, or bring the grace.