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They said we are advanced.

Yes.

To some extent.

But tell me

where exactly does that extent end?

Because I’ve met aliens.

Not the flying kind.

The walking kind.

The ones who look human

but think in weapons,

talk in borders,

dream in domination.

They have better technology than we do.

Better excuses too.

We are advanced,

but killing your own brothers and sisters

is still our oldest tradition.

We are advanced,

but we cannot stop a war

even when its consequences

grow heavier

with every second that escapes the clock.

Some wars don’t end.

They just learn how to age.

They survive childhoods.

They outlive decades.

They pass trauma like inheritance.

We can reach space,

but we can’t reach agreement.

We can build machines that learn,

but humans still refuse

to unlearn hatred.

They said we are advanced.

Maybe they meant fast.

Fast at destroying.

Fast at forgetting.

Fast at calling violence “necessary.”

And still…

the soil doesn’t abandon us.

It takes our blood.

Our bones.

Our wars.

And quietly turns them into food.

No flags.

No speeches.

No revenge.

Maybe advancement

was never about intelligence.

Maybe it was always about gratitude.

About knowing who raised you.

So today,

before calling ourselves advanced,

we should thank the soil

that keeps rising us

even when we keep falling.