Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Memoirs, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Social Commentary, Society, Travel, tagged abhor, activism, advance, affairs, after, again, aged, anger, beat, beneath, bias, bitter, black, bleed, blind, blood, body, book, bravery, burn, caravan, cell, chamber, chant, circle, clasp, close, cloud, collective, commentary, cowardice, cup, day, days, debate, defence, dictatorship, disappeared, discrimination, doctrine, don, down, dust, dying, each, ears, effigy, exile, extinguish, eyes, face, family, fate, fear, fearless, feet, fight, fill, fist, flame, force, friend, gate, glory, hate, heart, heavy, homeless, humiliation, hundred, hunte, hurl, imperialism, indigent, innocence, international, isolation, jeans, join, justice, land, landless, line, live, logic, march, mass, matter, moth, mountains, mouth, One, order, part, peasant, pen, phalanx, pheonix, placard, plainness, poem, poetry, police, Politics, prejudice, prevail, print, prison, push, ready, red, renegade, resurrection, revolution, rip, rise, sandals, seek, shame, shirt, shout, silence, someone, spout, stand, starving, state, stomp, stop, strain, street, struggle, subject, taste, tatter, teargas, text, thrown, torture, tribe, truth, ululation, vignette, vigor, voice, waterbomb, weak, weapon, wheel, world, young on February 1, 2012|
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We were among those hundred innocent feet
wheeling through the clouds of dusts. So close
that someone shouted to stop the angry phalanx
from advancing the gates. We were young bloods then.
Brave as a collective force ululating vignettes
about homeless families, starving peasants,
weak indigents, landless tribes,
friends of disappeared and the exiled.
We stand like a hundred innocent moths
circling fearlessly around the flame. Ready
to extinguish our fates for one day of glory.
The cups ready to be filled with the bitter
after-taste of seeking the truth on the matter
of state. Of politics. Of international affairs.
We stomp them shamelessly beneath our sandals.
We ripped them off from our tattered jeans.
We print them on the plainness of black shirts.
That justice of the land is not blind and should prevail.
We debated doctrines. We fight about logic.
We push our pens. We clasp our fists.
We join the caravan. We live our days
marching vigorous in the streets chanting
the aged texts on mass struggles by the red book.
Burning effigies. Donning the placards.
We abhor dictatorship. We hated imperialism.
Like waterbombs spouting heavily against our faces.
Like the many teargases hurled against our defences.
We bled when the police beat us out of the line.
Isolated when we are thrown into prison cells.
Humiliated when subjected into torture chambers.
Discriminated when hunted down in the mountains.
We rise and made each part of our bodies as weapons.
Our mouths without strained voices.
Our eyes without biases.
Our ears without prejudice.
Our fists without cowardice.
Our hearts without fear.
This is our revolution against the world order.
And the phoenix will rise again and again
among the many moths that have died.
Resurrected and will never be silenced.
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They Are Silent
Posted in Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Relationships, Religion, Social Commentary, Society, tagged actual, applause, audience, bait, beans, beehive, bees, bite, blind, cast, circus, clasp, coal, corners, deceit, disguise, double, doves, ears, edges, excuse, eyes, fish, fishy, fly, gossip run, gullible, hard, hear, heavy, honey, hook, ignorance, illusuion, imagine, incensed hot, innards, judgment, laceration, like, line, magician, mockery, mouth, naivete, One, open, over, overflow, phantom, pillars break, poem, poetry, puppets, ready, ripe, scream, see, shadow, sharp, show, silent, sorts, sound, spill, statues, sting, stones, stop, sword, talking, tangle, things, thrown, tongues, trick, truth, under, victims, weight, whistle, white, wish, words, worship on July 13, 2013| Leave a Comment »
They are silent, yes, they are silent.
I imagine them talking on corners
sounding like the bees ready to sting.
And the beehive is ripe and heavy
with gossip running over like honey.
The audience, they lined up like stones-
incensed hot coals ready to be casted
and thrown at statues and pillars
breaking under the weight of judgment.
They are silent, yes, they are silent.
A mockery of sorts, they like the show.
Shadow puppets will scream and whistle.
They are victims to a phantom in a circus
and worship the magician with words.
I wish the sword will tangle with tongues,
lacerate the innards and spill the beans.
I wish the fish will bite the bait
and see the hook clasp hard the mouth
to stop fishy things from overflowing.
They are silent, yes, they are silent.
The blind is not actually blind
but open eyes would like to see illusions.
They have ears but do not want to hear
truth as sharp at its double edges.
Applause will fly like white doves
for the trick and the disguise deceives
the gullible and naivete. Silent ones
whose ignorance excuses no one.
They are silent, yes, they are silent.
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