Archive for March, 2018

Earth – Our only Home

Earth – Our only Home …

When shall we awaken from our inebriated sleep,

to hear the pangs of pain that our mother Earth does weep?

When shall we shun the myopia of selfish greed,

to realise that we pillage more than we ever need?

When will tear our sewn eyes open,

to tend to our mother, as she shrieks, bruised and broken?

When will we vanquish the actions of governments, the corporations, and all those who callously loot,

as they strip bare our Earth without giving a hoot?

Will it be in our lifetime, that we shall make a collective stand,

isn’t the hour of action now at hand?

Will we sit by quietly, intoxicated and enmeshed in our apathetic deeds,

while our mother Earth still gives of herself even though she bleeds?

Will we be that generation that condemns our children’s children to inherit an Earth plundered and diseased,

bestowing upon them a planet once bounteous, but by then long deceased?

Will we be the ones blamed for stripping our mother Earth bare,

in the blind pursuit of wealth, and without a care?

But there may still be time to stem the bleeding that flows from mother Earths veins,

but only if we seize this singular opportunity to yank back our profit-driven reins.

There may still be a few more moments, in which we can collectively unite,

beyond narrow self-serving interests, and by shunning our petty spite.

There may still be ways by which we can this beautiful earth tend,

across borders, if we realise that we are staring into an abyss, almost at the very end.

There still rests within our hands the power to right the obscene wrongs we are guilty for,

a sliver of a chance, a slight crack in the narrow, yet still open door.

But if we fail this Earth, we shall all be culpable in her agonising demise,

and then, there shall be no room for pretences, and no time for feigning fake suprise.

Because if we refuse to accept that the damage inflicted is man-made,

there shall be no shelter beneath which generations to come may bask under a tree’s shade.

And if we do not take action now, already long overdue,

to agitate against the rapacious greed of the few,

there will be no gardens in which our children may behold, the scintillating drop of fresh morning dew.

If we do not force our governments to regulate themselves and their kin, the beastly corporations, by raising all our voices to a roar deafeningly loud,

we shall be known as the contemptible ones, who watched the carnage against the Earth, while blindfolded by greed’s ugly shroud,

and worst of all, we made and still make merry,

sipping champagne, letting the heinous crimes be perpetrated in our name,

while in complicit silence, the ravaging, by us all, was allowed,

to our eternal guilt, and our collective shame.

A Raving Rant

A Raving Rant …

This moment in time, and the decades that have preceded it since the industrial revolution, have been studded with great breakthroughs in medicine and the sciences, among other ‘miracles’ of technology and human ingenuity.

However as we live in 2018, has the human race not become virtually inured to the ‘bigger picture’ – the ‘system’ chosen, or thrust down, being the system of profit at any cost.

Whether it be the grotesque arms industry or the equally grotesque Monsanto and Cargill and Halliburton corporations that wish to patent seeds – the very essence of food, and others of our world that have orchestrated an almost unbelievable feat of social and emotional and psychological control and engineering, or the corrupt leaders of governments pillaging the coffers that are meant to serve the people.

The fortunate ones in terms of material comforts and the rest that the ugliness of money can ‘do’ for them, compared to the 99% of whom we share this world with – those left out in the cold to eke out a miserable existence of the fight for just survival from hunger and the innumerable deprivations of poverty.

One need not look far.

The system and the placid and complicit acceptance of it has inured people to the point that hearts are hardened and that compassion has been dumbed down.

The self contained bubbles that ‘shield’ ‘successful’ humans from poverty and deprivation, but more frighteningly is the insidious injection of apathy and lack of empathy into daily life that has been the aim of the only-for-profit societies has done at the cost of fellow human beings who are stuck in 22 hour-a-day shifts in sweatshops and far too many dehumanising ‘work’ that is a necessity for the 1% to live the lives they do.

It is quite simple actually – earn as much as you can to buy the things you want and are ‘told’ that you need and make as much profit but at the price of the poor for no business or industry can run profitably if it gives its workers a decent salary or wages for then the grand aim of profit making is lost.

Don’t humans all live in cocoons?

In the office, a cocoon that makes human beings earn the money that is needed to live the life that is desired.

Cocoons at home in bubbles, surrounded by material possession that have been sold because of their ‘need’ and shutting out the ‘outside’ so-called ‘dregs’ of society, whom one gets irritated at when they knock on our cocooned bubbles once a week or so to plead for bread or some loose change.

Cocoons within ourselves, true feelings and emotions kept close in islands that are lonesome hearts because again it has been ‘sold’ to all that the McDonald’s ‘happy meal-life’ of always being ‘with it’ and always painting on smiles is the ‘way to go’ as people get more and more engulfed in the pressures of maintaining that lifestyle.

The pressure, or ‘persuasion’ to have kids go to the best schools, wear the finest clothes, have swimming and piano and other lessons where the parent, almost always the wife and mother, has to be on-call and on her toes all day juggling a career as well as being subjected to the daily grind of all of the above and more and then still having to prepare a meal or three – this makes the wife and mother exhausted both physically and mentally and emotionally and psychologically to the point when days are spent not really ‘living’ but just doing the ‘daily moms taxi runs’ for which we then need therapy and psychiatric medication for not all can bear all that and more without cracking or at the very least not being able to cope.

This anaesthetised ‘living’ – almost to the obscene point of even having the gall of comparing the 1% to the 99% because ‘look at the poor’ – they are so content and happy’.

No, the poor anywhere in the world are not ‘happy’ that they slog and sweat for long hours to return to shanties and urban ghettos in order to put some bread on the table – not even a table, as that is a luxury too.

So the system keeps on keeping on, piling pressure on cocoons separate from fellow beings and families and wives or husbands and mothers and siblings as the same cocoons are what family, friends, and people are ensconced in.

How can there be ’empathy’ in a system that breaks people down into compliant consumers and making sure that the cocooned state of meticulously crafted obliviousness, because how can humans ‘care’ for the ‘other-half’ when every hour of every day is precious and when the race is forever ongoing, always running and chasing time and being almost slave-like to the clock.

The system then further infects with the promise of bliss and joy if consumption of things people are made to think they need but really don’t – how many advertisements for alcohol are around which pummels all, where ‘The Main Man’ is surrounded by ‘pretty’ and scantily clad women – an ugly appeal to the basest of emotions – sheer unthinking lust.

Furthermore, every two years or so a new car model is unleashed with again advertising that seeks to ingrain the relationship between ownership of a particular thing, in this case a car to the ‘idea’ of the ‘ideal family – kids in the back seat having a laugh and the pretty wife looking over to the broadly grinning husband – so one has to have that car to add that ‘missing contentment’ to ones already cocooned lives.

The so-called cosmetics and beauty industry is probably the best example of all where an industry ‘sells’ their idea of their ‘ideal woman’ to women – maybe it’s maybelline that makes all desirable and pretty and not a hair out of place or maybe it is l’oreal because ‘you’re worth it’ and a worthy consumer also to make one desirable to whom – the man – always the man.

The louis vuitton handbags and the de beers diamonds, the ferraris and the chanel ‘haute-couture’, the mansions with 20 rooms for a family of 5, the ‘need’ to always ‘look’ the best and to attend parties and weddings shrouded by the ‘best clothes’ and for what? For the simple wish to look ‘better’ than the ‘rest’. Not to look presentable – nope – but to make a ‘splash’ and to be talked about with awe.

Of course all of this applies to men probably even more so as they have hand made saville row suits for their daily work lives and their thousands of dollars on their wrists for a clunky thing that just tells the time – the time that they have so very precious little of because to buy into the system is to aim to fulfill all that the system offers – first a toyota then a bmw and then a ferrari.

The patriarchal entitlement and the gender-based violence that countless women are subjected to by the very people they love and live with is a cancerous tumour that needs to be excised now, not tomorrow, but now.

We talk incessantly about the ‘need’ for simplicity and contentment while actively pursuing the very opposite.

The rituals of religion, all of them, overshadowing the very basic teachings and humane tenets that all religions espouse.

We are led to believe by the clergy of different religions that it is okay to amass wealth as long as ‘charity’ is ‘given’ – such an obscene word in itself making people feel so powerful with wealth that they may ‘give’ alms to the unfortunate poor.

The words of Dom Helder Camara – a Brazilian Archbishop, come to mind, who said the following:

“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist”.

If that statement resonates within anyone reading it – it means all is not lost at the altar of greed and imperialism and neo-colonialism and wars for oil and profit and influence.

It means that human beings are not totally lost in the temptation-filled cesspool of wealth and of power and of influence and of greed at any price, even the price of the blood of the miner who digs and dies to extract the shiny stone that has no earthly use other than being an ostentatious statement of which ‘class’ and what strata of society one ‘belongs’ to, and perhaps most grotesquely the shining little stone is tied together with ‘love for another person’ – the expression of love for another being that shiny shimmering cold and dead stone.

All is not lost when the countless human beings who are actively serving their fellow humans, not by flinging some charity their way, but but educating and imparting the skills needed to live a better life or to simply manage to feed their children and do so in a dignified way, and not being reliant on the alms of the ‘altruism’ we hear so much about in this world of pure unabashed greed and of standing and kicking down others to reach higher and higher on the ladder of ‘success’ – for every winner in the this system there have to be many many losers – that is built into the system.

What can we do about this gross obscenity we live in and pursue and are a part of, not because we are all greedy but because to eke out a living is to trample on others, giving us almost no choice.

What other systems of governance can we turn to in order to effect real and meaningful change.

Not many at all. Communism was tried and failed. Protectionist isolation was tried and failed. And a few more also tried and failed.

If there is a ray of hope it has to be that the people, us all, rise up to demand social equality for all our fellow human beings – even at the expense of our own personal cocoons being punctured.

A system of professional and free universal health care for all. A system of free and compulsory education for all.

A social contract between the government and the people that we may not all live lavish lives but that the lives we shall lead shall not be on the backs of those whose only crime was the accident of birth into poverty.

This may or may not effect real change – and certainly will not obliterate all the ills of this unjust world but wouldn’t it be a worthy goal to aspire towards – the service of our fellow living beings – our human family, the fish in our seas, the grandeur of nature and animal species not killed for profit, and for the active search for and working towards a world that is ecologically healthy so that future generations do not look back on us as those who failed not just each other as human beings but this entire planet called earth and the millions of other living beings and trees and plants which we share the world with.

It will take time.

But is it not a point from which we make a collective start moving forward.

I think so.

PS: On the other hand, who am I scribbling this for?

The ‘other half’ may not get to read this, they would need a cellphone and that too only a phone that is recent enough to run apps at the like which of course means a price will have to be forked out for a data-bundle – so I am obviously the 1% – as always thinking and believing that ‘I’ know what is best for ‘them – the poor of the world’ and ‘I’ again as always am speaking to you and I and not the ‘other-half’.

So no, this is most definitely not for ‘the other half’ who live and are beaten down by the system daily, and who certainly doesn’t need someone like me to spout the above with the presumption of knowing what their life is like every day.

So maybe it is just for me and for you.

Or maybe and probably more close to the point, it is just me absolving myself of guilt for a few hours or a day just because I scribbled something that mentions the words ‘system’ and ‘capitalism’ and the other platitudes people like me throw around when the convenient time presents itself – obviously after a steaming cup of not just any but the finest tea while lying on my bed surrounded by the very wealth and privilege I rail against.

Or it is even more subtle and dangerous – my attempt at appearing to sound like a humble man of sorts – not that any of this hasn’t been said and written a million times before but again to assuage my guilt and of course to puff my ego and my cigar a little more – scribble something about inequality blah blah, again sipping fine tea from a fine cup lying on a fine bed propped up on fine pillows surrounded by fine views of nature and far removed from the cacophonous ‘other’.

Yes, because I will rail against ‘my own’ but never shall I surrender ‘my life’ to be a part of the whole.

That would be so much more difficult and would mean yanking myself out of my own comfort zone, so instead, it is far more easier to just scribble a rant, because I am so ‘progressive’ and ‘liberal’ and filled with the most humane of values.

To quote Bono of the music group U2, in the song “Silver and Gold” from the album “Rattle and Hum”.

“Am I buggin’ ya – I don’t mean to bug ya”

May we stand Tall

As we make our way through this life, these finite years, with their share of tears, of strife,

the cruelty we witness, the pain we see, the sorrow we feel, may we remember to never give in, however foul or fair, may we not despair, may we never kneel,

beyond the jitters and the odd titter, may we stand firm, never bitter,

past the jeers, jabs, and the cackles, however many times we may fall, may we arise, to shake of the fetters,

and may we always, always stand tall

Life, love, and sweetly aching blues

caught red-handed, stealing moments,

a mere nanosecond, of hastily borrowed time,

yes, I stand accused,

of a past, pockmarked by shrapnel skidding off the many alleyways of my life,

yes, I plead guilty,

helpless, engaged in a duel with destiny and time,

wasting away,

scribbling verses in the sand, devoid of an iota of life’s maddening, yet irresistibly seductive rhyme

Aching to Ache

Aching to Ache …

Clawing into myself,

digging, scraping, scratching a phantom itch.

Amputating feelings, thoughts, emotions,


always excising love,

to feel some pain,

for once, to feel the ache, the heartbreak, the anger, the desolation, the loss, the pangs of remorse,

to feel anything at all,

not this numbness,

these tattered synapses, this inured state of anaesthetised unfeeling, the brittle thoughts that shatter, painless, when I stumble and crash, and fall.

I ache for the ache, pining to pine, hungering to hunger, bleeding fragments of myself, only to bleed, to feel,



The Deluge

The Deluge …

finally the deluge,

skipping rhythmic heartbeats,

leaving behind rats racing on frenetic city streets,

caressing lonesome weeds, sprinkling crystal beads on gently waving reeds,

soft sprinkling rain,

a soothing balm banishing pain,

lulling, cajoling, comforting weary evenings,

glistening leaves

on rain soaked trees,

hope afloat on the misty breeze,

each blade of grass shimmering,

rough diamonds strewn about,

the rainbows in every drop  glistening,

settling in my heart,

softly lilting touches of peace, of truth,

hushed promises of a new start

of finally being a part,

as the rains sweep away,

the debris of the now,

the numb detritus of  yesterday.

h o p e 

hope …

Morning dew glistens on feathered petals, alive with promise.

Moments past, having passed, soak up streaming rays of sunshine.

Wounds of yesteryear soothed, cocooned,

in fresh layers of solemn peace.

All aching yesterdays consigned,

in deep recesses of memory.

Haunting me no longer and tormenting me no more,

as I shed the weight of all I so reluctantly bore,

for tomorrow is alive, awash with new hope,

of gentle laughter dipped in quietly sipped joy,

of placid memories yet to be felt,

rising to my feet at last, for far too long have I in sorrow knelt.

Whispered songs yet to be sung, scribbled verses yet to penned,

joyous tears yet to be cried,

the incessant call of the ache, ready to be defied.

Tomorrow is alive with new hope,

of sweetly scented roses blooming all around.

Murmurs of delight in moments, warm, unshackled from pain,

lost touches of myself once again sought after, finally found.

Tomorrow is alive with new hope,

a new beginning devoid of the guilt of past decay,

absorbing freshness of essence of a new day.

Lilting melodies floating on the silken breeze,

banishing all pain, setting the mind at ease.

Tomorrow is alive with new hope,

hope that keeps gloomy nights afar,

even if the emptiness is lit up,

with just the shimmering of a solitary star.

It is this very hope that I hold onto with dear life,

never to give in again to bleak thoughts of mental strife,

hope it is,

hope it must always be,

keeping the sanity within,

setting my soul free …

metallic tastes burrow deeper into me,

‘I am lost’, I say,

as leaden weight blankets my vision,

and emptiness looms with frantic precision,

‘i am lost’, i say,

once more,

driving the stake deeper and deeper,

into my innermost core,

leaving me impotent,

torn, broken,

a shade lost amidst the myriad strands,

of tomorrows yet to dawn,




in the vice grip of yesterdays pain,



against the grain,

of cultured norms,

polished forms,

that dig,

and stab,

skewering moments,

lost forever,

in the paradise of thorns,

where desolation stalks the empty spaces,

etched on numberless faces,

battered and beaten down,



snatching odd breaths,

as the edifice itself,


tugged below,

into the quicksand of oblivious horror,

where suns dipped,

and emotions get shipped,

onto that barge,

stammering on a river,

cut to pieces,

shred, diced and sliced,

sliver by agonising sliver

Bipolar Blues

Bipolar Blues …

Why are these lies by me casually spoken, my mouth torn, bruised and broken.

“I am fine”.

No I am not fine.

I’m as fine as a dung dusted shoe is from a shine.

I’m not fine, I’m lost, between harsh dreams and silent screams.

A cacophony of noise, jarring and bland and dull,

not enough to even feel, left thoroughly numb and null.

At times sinking in a dark empty void, of all hope devoid,

at times, my mania spiralling wildly out, when not even I know, what I am scribbling about.

When prejudice and hate are spewed forth,

in conventions and meetings and living room lounges,

humanity shudders.

When doctrines of superiority and racism are flung,

in talk-shows and Q & A’s and town halls and pillow talk,

humanity recoils.

Hate speech is not free,

it enslaves minds, infecting countless folk,

hate speech is not free,

it denigrates the dignity of swathes of humanity,

who are still trying to shake off racisms’ tyrannical yoke.

Hate speech is not free.

Hate speech is not free speech.

a l o n e

Alone …

Alone with notes of faintly remembered melodies,

once known, now mere murmurs,

carried by the veiled breeze,

wafting over oceans, spanning stormy seas.

Alone with doleful sighs of turtledoves,

consoling their mates,

weeping in willows,

as the howling wind of fate billows.

Alone with dirges soaring beyond walls,

creeping through ivy covered steps,

to the barricaded fortress that is my heart,

discarded, left, festering on broken hearts’ cart.

Alone with mournful whispers,

echoing along halls,

of crumbling mansions of yesteryear,

tearing at the chains of imprisoned fear.

Alone with

promises of a new dawn,

somewhere along the slippery slope,

embraced by the perennial thoughts of a new hope.

Alone with jabbing memories of interred truth,

flailing, gasping for air in so many tears shed,

dispelling the spectre of a stifling rope,

blinded by the mirage of being able to cope.

Alone with memories of then,

thoughts of now,

swarming through a soul that refuses to bow.

Alone with travails yet to face,

the heart fortified, resolute to go on,

crawling on boulevards, no longer a part of the numbed rat-race.

Alone at home, this weary traveller,

walking tall in icy sleet, no longer terrified by slicing rain,

tying shoelaces on pockmarked boots,

to forge new alleyways ahead,

though always alone,

and always, always against the grain …

compassionate capitalism 101 …

stemming the loss,

dripping red,

arterial spray,


amidst anaesthetised shades,

of souls once alive,


dancing under pale moonlight,

pausing only for cauterisation,


of too many wounds.


dripetty-drip ceases,

consciences lobotomised,

and as it has been,

and as it is now,

and as it may be,


numb faces,

tango deeper

into the hollowness,

the cacophonous void,


signed and sealed,

of deals done,


souls sold on

profitable leases

aching …

aching …

she is real. i know she is.

she kisses my days. she caresses my nights.

she is real. i know she is.

she wraps her gentle breeze around me. inflaming me. and i stand still. ablaze.

lost in the whirlpools of her eyes. drowning in the kisses she sprinkles.

she is real. but not with me. she is real. but not with me in this life i carve out, as i squander regrets, wishing i could find a voice to shout.

she flits in and out of view, her beauty imprisoned me decades ago, now i have no clue where to go, whether to breathe a new life anew?

no, most definitely not, i will cherish her kisses, even though they were but a few. i still taste her mouth, as fresh as the morning dew.

she is real. she always has been. a fiery comet blazing across the canvas of my life, blank though it was,

she poured stardust into my heart, killing me with her touch, even as our moments were broken, weaving between clocks and time, after we had in each other, wildly melodic passions awoken.

she had been real. as real as these tears blotting my cheeks, as real as the half-empty bottle that of stale bourbon reeks, as real as these thorns that stab my feet as i try to walk, as real as the needles that silence me when i want to talk.

as real as a love caged in a box, the muffled voices distant, faint,

while her hair filled the skies with pastel paint.

she is real. she is. she is real, she always will be.

she is the one,
who set my soul free.

that gentler way …

sometimes in dreams, this world feels a much gentler place,

where hunger stalks nights and days no more,

where we share this earths gifts,

more equally

less greedily, 

a gentler place,

where we have bid farewell to war …

sometimes in dreams,

I taste the hope,

of a gentler world,

where songs of joy may be heard each day,

a gentler world

where we all,

all of us, together,

as one,

strive to find

that gentler way …

( inspired by Pete Seeger’s “Last Night I had the Strangest Dream” )

South Africa: Human Rights Day 21 March 2018 …

Today we celebrate our shared humanity,

through smiles and tears, the ache of the past and the hopes of today, and of tomorrows yet to dawn.

Today we share our Africanness, our blood enmeshed within each other – bright red thumping through countless veins, 

reminding us of the spirit of uBuntu – I am because we are,

we are because of each other, fellow travellers through the travails of life, 

seeking not riches nor title, seeking the bright sunshine of peace, banishing the darkness of strife.

We are one people, myriad hues of the rainbow enveloping us all,

lending a hand to each other,

every time we stumble,

each time we fall …

schmaltzy scribble





alfoat on honeydew petals.

mere strands,


years trickling through


lost whispers,

dreamed caresses,


alive …


ablaze in the cauldron,

of destiny,


of convergent wisps,

sprinkling kisses,

on your

honeydew lips …

Bigotry is Binary

Bigotry is Binary …

Instilling fear,
sowing terror,
masked bigots seeking to silence us all.

Injecting prejudice,
fomenting discord,
crass politicians tearing at us until we fall.

Celebrating bigotry,
entrenching hate,

schizophrenic fascism gestates,

sinking fanatical talons into diseased thoughts,

feeding the beasts of divisiveness,
sowing racism,

as the doctrine of superiority mutates.

Bigotry is binary,

there are no shades of grey, no colours of the rainbow humans may behold today.

Bigotry is binary,

you’re either white or not right,

my religion is superior, yours is a blight,

my country right or wrong,

your culture inferior, mine bright, a shining beacon of pristine light.

All these many heads of the hydra,

from dinner tables to corridors of power afar,

spawning monsters reared to prey,

while bigots of all shades,

spew hate,

as they, their very own humanity slay.

my poem “Old Sof’town” published in “To Breathe Into Another Voice: A South African Anthology of Jazz Poetry” – Edited by Myesha Jenkins

Published by Real African Publishers.

Old Sof’town*


In old Sof’town,
the jazz struck chords,

the jazz lived, it exploded,
out of the cramped homes,
rolling along the streets,
of old Kofifi,

in tune to countless blazing heartbeats.

In old Sof’town,
Bra’ Hugh breathed music, Sis’ Dolly too,
and Bra’ Wally penned poems that still ring true.

In old Sof’town,
Father Trevor preached
equality and justice,
for all, black and white and brown,

and all shades, every hue,
even as oppression battered the people,
black & blue.

In old Sof’town,
the fires of resistance raged,

‘we will not move’ was the refrain,

even as the fascists tore down Sof’town,
with volleys of leaden rain.

In old Sof’town,
the people were herded,
like cattle,
sent to Meadowlands,
far away and cold and bleak,
as the seeds of resistance,
sprouted and flourished,
for the coming battle.

In old Sof’town,
the bulldozers razed homes,
splitting the flesh of a community apart,
only to raise a monument of shame,
and ‘Triomf’ was its ghastly name.


In Jozi today,
we remember those days,
and those nights of pain,
that stung our souls.
like bleak winter rain.

Yes, we remember old Sof’town,
as we struggle onward,
to reclaim our deepest heritage,
and build anew,
a country of all hues and shades,
of black and of white and of brown.

And yes, we will always remember,

and yes, we will never forget,

the price that was paid,
by the valiant sons and daughters,
of old Sof’town,

those vibrant African shades and hues,

of black,
of white,
of brown.

* Sophiatown was also called Sof’town and Kofifi.

More about Sophiatown:

Apartheid destruction of Sophiatown:

truth reborn

truth reborn …

in bruised, raw patches of harsh, agonising pain,

blindly twisting against tightening restraints of grief,

reaching deep inside,

the empty heart’s vault,

there emerges the shimmering of a hope ever so brief.

An abiding hope that blazes with radiant intensity,

a hope that unshackles chains that releases,

a scorched mind and soul,

the restless torment inside,

bursting forth,

surfacing, reaching for bliss to finally grasp.

A hope that aches in the deepest caverns of the heart,

that desolation may soon be dispelled,

with soothing feelings of a dawn.

A hope that the bleak emptiness,

swirling around the vacuum,

may be filled with hope anew,

clinging to

fresh feelings of truth reborn.

The Art of Word-Jacking …




Three words,

lost to us.

Plundered by the few,

stripped naked and ravaged,

pummeled into submission.

Three words,

taken from us.

Usurped so casually,

stolen and cleaved,

left meaningless.

Three words,

strangled and violated.

No more.

Not today.

Today, we reclaim the ideals,

the billion voices,

all straining to be heard.

Today, we take back our truth,

our collective aspiration,

still yearning for the harvest.

Today, we sing the hymns of freedom,

as we gather at the gates of justice,

while mourning the paralysis of democracy.




Three words,

that we shall wrest back.

Three words,

that have nurtured our dreams.




Three words,

for which we all have bled.

Three words,

word-jacked and abused,

that are ours once more.




Three words,

that shall remain tightly wrapped,

around our collective core.

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