A country that bleeds quietly.

The nation walks barefoot on thorns of its own making,

A mother with milkless breasts, still singing lullabies.

Her rivers run red with the patience of the poor,

While palaces bloom where forests once stood.

The drums of power beat louder than truth,

Yet beneath the soil, a stubborn seed listens.

They said silence was peace,

But silence became a prison without windows.

Every whisper of justice is chased like a fugitive wind,

Every question branded a wandering fire.

Still the night cannot swallow every star,

For some lights refuse the discipline of darkness.

 

The vultures have learned the language of suits,

Their claws hidden beneath polished speeches.

They circle above villages and call it leadership,

They measure land with the hunger of kings.

But the earth remembers every footprint,

And the soil knows its rightful children.

Some tongues have been purchased like cattle at the market,

Their songs now echo the master's trumpet.

They dance in borrowed robes of loyalty,

Calling chains the ornaments of peace.

But truth walks slowly through the crowd,

Recognized by those who still feel the wound.

Look—

The farmer who tills without title,

The widow who guards a collapsing hut,

The child who studies beneath a flickering lamp.

They are the quiet parliament of suffering,

Their sighs heavier than any decree.

The courts wear robes, but justice limps barefoot,

Parliament echoes like a hollow drum.

When power begins to script the law,

The nation becomes a theatre of shadows.

Yet history is a patient archivist,

Writing every betrayal in indelible dust.

Still, the people are a river, not a puddle,

And rivers remember the way to the sea.

You may dam them with fear,

You may poison them with lies,

But the tide of awakening travels silently,

Gathering courage from every village fire.

Let the poets sharpen their metaphors like spears of light,

Let the singers summon the courage of tomorrow.

Let the teachers plant stubborn questions in young minds,

And elders whisper stories of dignity.

For a nation is not built by rulers alone,

It is sculpted by the heartbeat of its people.

One morning the wind will change direction,

And the dust of the road will rise together.

Not with stones, not with hatred,

But with the quiet thunder of united will.

For even the tallest throne trembles,

When the people remember their strength.

So guard the flame of hope, citizens of tomorrow,

Carry it through the valleys of patience.

A day will arrive when the dawn asks a question,

And the nation must answer with its conscience.

Then the wounded earth will breathe again,

And justice will finally walk without chains. 

© Bunguswa ™