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Truth held her tongue

Shuddering, timid and weak

Kneeling to power

 

For too long subdued

By weaponry of the state

Built on the Big lie

 

For too long crouching

Convinced she could not win

Against the mighty

 

For too long ruled

By bigotry and sly greed

She  lifted the stone

 

Now we have a sling

Giving voice to the voiceless

Through phone and fibre

 

Empires will fall

When crowds speak truth to power

By choosing their mark

 

The David within

Dormant for too long

 

Bricks Grafitti Berlin Wall Painted Wall Spray

These walls speak

Sometimes too choked with fear

To tell us about what happened here

 

These walls cry

Tears of dried blood from old scars

Of prejudice and pain behind those bars

 

These walls scream

Of  silenced voices and separated lives

Edicts determining who endures and who thrives

 

These walls hide

Exhumed hatred, resurrected from a bygone era

When masked men darted knives of burning terror

 

These walls hear

Vitriolic words, disguised in the name of the holy book

Claiming promised lands with a stolen verse as the hook

 

These walls see

How we cower in shadows when we make that mark

That gives our permission for self selection into the ark

 

These walls know

Who carries blood and dirt on their hands

When we build new walls to extend divided lands

 

 

 

 

 

 

winds of change 1
Source: Africafarandwide.com

I heard their silence

in the winds of discontent,

echoes joining in

the growing chorus.

 

Hoarse coughs and splutters,

cleared blocked passages.

Throttled resonance

found strange bedfellows.

 

Aching moans and groans

rose in harmonious howls.

Dissenting voices

rising in the air,

 

leaving trails of dust

on the graves of buried bones.

New songs composed

for fresh winds of change.

 

I heard those voices,

recognizing yours and mine-

no longer silent

in the breaking dawn.

 

 

 

hollow people 2

when did the miracle

turn into a mirror filled with cracks?

when did the rising angel

turn into an awful doll made of wax?

 

when did the crowd of smiling faces

wear painted masks with malicious grins?

when did the neighbors no longer greet

and stop looking out for each other’s bins?

 

where is the nostalgia for the fresh green grass,

that place back then that once was called home?

where have all the people gone, where are they ?

are they the hollow bones who now freely roam?

 

when did their souls leave their bodies?

are they in heaven or hell or still here on this earth?

who is that lurking behind the hollowed-out oak tree?

stranger stalking, a reckless era given birth?

 

it’s become a great puzzle, this razzle and this dazzle.

join the new world order if you can survive the spinning frazzle!

 

Illustration showing Niels Klim with the tree-people of Potu, from the 1845 English edition of Niels Klim’s Journey Under the Ground