Poetry

My Country

We sang at least
“Twinkle twinkle little star” the days our hope were still at sight.
Until the bloke with a black heart
sat on the throne.
He was the moonless night without stars
turning our waltzing dance into solemn
Now we are left to soil
our white gloves.

Mothers wear slim out
of hunger but call it fast. Children with ragged jeans
fathers with sudor palms.

Can we still have a voice here?
To at least clatter before
our dreams shatter?
We sail in the stormy sea with our rumbling stomachs
The heat from the sun turns moisture,
gently; we shed.

Can we still have a voice here?
So difficult to see what the
future holds through this mist.
Kings fill their cup with innocent blood for glee and praise
Half dozen life yearn for death knock
Under the feet of authority
Our vision compressed.
The weight of promises unfulfilled.

The last verge of hope is a future diverge of hopeful dreams or hopeful prayer.
To chase the dawn after the
dark night of our soul.

Because we will sing again
When we find our lost moon.
We will sing again
once we set the sun right.
We will sing again
Maybe under the same firmament
Or different galaxy.
This time singing oh!
“The land is green.”

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