a people who will not be slaves again.

the earthen dirt of our nation cakes under our fingernails.
it clings to us loyally,
like a servant determined to venerate its beloved master.
it will endure amidst the storm of invasion, we take comfort in that.

and yet, which master will till its fertile soil?
despotism grows bitter fruits.

into each square we march,
raising the abused remnants of freedom –
trodden upon and broken, glistening in the cannon smoke of revolution,
they are beautiful as jewels.

silk scarves,
stiff and sticky with the rigor mortis of dried blood

flag poles,
smooth and cold as justice, which fly the shattered remains of colors

locks of hair,
tokens of the fallen, finally at ease as they whip in the wind

our drums announce our survival long before the weight of our steps.
each beating heart, made stronger by the anger of injustice and loss,
echoes the steady rhythm.
each still heart, deafening in its silence,
propels us forward.

gravel and gunpowder clot the wounds of reproach by the tongues of tyranny.
the war is stifling, breaching our lungs with the rolling rubbleclouds of malfeasance.

we mourn over the miscarriage of honor.

we lift our voices, softly at first, then louder.
they rise, careless and invincible, over the strewn bodies and ripped dreams:
a song of freedom, unrehearsed and induplicatable.
we sing our defiance with one intrinsic and resilient voice.

we sing for tomorrow. for justice. for the unborn and the untainted.
we sing for our lovers. our captains. our mothers and our fathers.
our fallen brothers and our ravaged sisters.

we sing for a good death.

it is the music of a people who will not be slaves again.

the calloused hands of time, weathered by their own indifference,
will bring about the morning:
when tomorrow comes, it will find us free men, or corpses.