The Last Quire

FIVE.
Not here to praise the evil deeds
of ambitious Saints,
of dictator’s pretentious bade.
In the village of abused labor paints
the elegance of the rotten system.
Born to fight for the lower prism.
There, freedom is a battle cry.

FOUR.
Not far in the chained mind,
in the blinded credibility.
Not free unless there’s a bar
that binds the limit of dignity.
You’re not born to hide
in the warm mountains afar.
Unleash! Run on your own gun.

THREE.
Strive off to struggle
to seek for the real battle
neither in the high glimmered gold
nor in the soft-molded cotton balls
in a ray blankly looking sky.
Real arena, at the bottom of yelling cries.

TWO.
Off the crowd, rally in a silence mob’s plane.
Off the corner, in a toasted activist’s lane.
You’re looking for the masses,
your strength…
your weakness…
Subconscious freedom in the river prints.

ONE.
Neither to belittle the muddy system.
Your point for the prevailing leaders
damned the coordinate
of freedom and democracy.
You write not for war but CHANGE.

.
You stand alone
over your mind and pen.
The more you shouted the forbidden words,
the more you become a hero,
the more you delimit the boundless thoughts,
the more you get SHOT!