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
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
frozen ribbons lie…
shredded among the debris
of broken baubles,
pulverised stolen lives
hoisting christmas gifts, he thrives.
I heard their silence
in the winds of discontent,
echoes joining in
the growing chorus.
Hoarse coughs and splutters,
cleared blocked passages.
found strange bedfellows.
Aching moans and groans
rose in harmonious howls.
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.
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