Poetry
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
in Delhi as we speak. There are women on the streets of Shaheen bah. There are songs of Azadi freedom Liberty that they chant into the dark from dawn until dusk, day after day, 100 over hundreds are saying this revolution, it's ours. Burn our blankets if you must. The fire will keep us warm, take everything. Our voices are still our own, your threats, your weapons, they do not cannot scare us. The fact of being oppressed is that oppression cannot wear us. Bring your dejected, your chewed up, spit out your wet and wasting away. Bring your young, you're old, Bring your quiet sewn mouths, you're hungriest souls, you're shallowest pockets. Bring your complicit. Let heavy hammer come down from behind the bars. They sing or weep, no lamplight, no blazing torch, no brazen host to slide in the key. No, from behind bars They wait. Their mother has long since abandoned them passed the torch, leaving for the ancient pomp of another life, for the ease of turning a blind eye, murky glow of greed roasting on amazon's fire, starting a movement marching till their legs retire, charging big levy on hope and rebate on hate, no child abuse, no dumb poverty, Clickbait pulverizing idols for a new satanic walmart new world to be built. New hopes, a false start killing our dreams without their hands being tremblay enough of this Bs let's call the General assembly Mr. President Mr. Prime Minister Mr. Chairman Mr. Ambassador Mr businessman wake up, let the chains be freed. Justice, weighed by liars in the name of atonement. They get slaves for higher guilt. Stone is heavy incarceration is their fate. Back behind bars, paroles denied, not just late. Second chances are in movies there's no restart, only a forceful guilt, only a broken heart spilling more blood in the name of fake wisdom enough of this **** show. Let's call on the prison system. Mr. Police Officer, Mr. Premier Mr. Commissioner Mr. Attorney General. Wake up and there are these omens, these signs. And I feel like listening is a lost art. Merely existing is a lost art. Existing without the purpose of usefulness is a dying medium. And I wonder if I'll ever live to see the Museum of goodness and step foot in the hallway of our best intentions. Reading the plaque above the doorway that reads, Thank you for visiting us. Here lies the last of our virtue. A scraggly haggard fox. A vixen by her doug's lapped at our little ornamental pond rested in the shade of our red oak, exhausted her dull. I unwatchable, her attention inward, chin on pause, ribs pressing from within, with each ragged breath careless of birds at their feeders, ignoring the squirrel chiding her from a nearby limb. Perhaps she's a refugee from housing construction in nearby fields. She won't last long without a home territory, an eco niche where she can be her natural foxy