The poet's fire

The poet walks where justice sleeps,

A lantern lit in blinded streets,

Weaving words like sharpened spears,

Piercing through the iron veils,

Where truth is caged and silence reigns.

They paint the cries of the broken land,

On walls where leaders dare not glance,

Verses rise like a raging storm,

Stripping thrones of golden lies,

And shaking cities built on sand.

Ink is fire upon deceitful tongues,

A rebel’s torch in hidden caves,

For where the ballot lost its weight,

And voices drown in hollow cheers,

The poet roars with borrowed breath.

They echo hunger’s bitter wail,

As children beg on paved deceit,

While hands that swore to heal the wounds,

Now feast on dreams they swore to guard,

The poet counts each stolen dawn.

The elders sit on brittle thrones,

Lulled by hymns of stolen wealth,

Yet poetry cracks the painted masks,

Unmasks the wolves in silken robes,

And calls the youth to rise as one.

So let the rulers call it rage,

Or brand the truth a rebel’s song,

But when the poet shapes the dawn,

No fortress stands, no chain can bind,

For words outlive the hands of kings.

© Bunguswa ™