Arise

Whilst bequeathed

are the grasping wealthy                        

with pilfered, false grandeur,

plundered and encumbered

are droves of working poor.

As the rancid wind

of wrongness rages

and fiercely blusters

in your faces,

arise, my brethren, arise,

effect its due demise,

for benumbed you’ve been for ages…

arise,  ye battered,  arise.

For shackled are your weary limbs

by gilded chains unseen,

and dulled are noble minds

by contrived and poisoned dreams;

whilst hollow men of arrogance

in swollen excess bask,

ye toil beneath oppressive suns

and seldom pause to ask

why palaces stand radiant

as children starve in gloom,

or why the fruits of countless hands

so seldom freely bloom.

As venomous decrees descend

from towering halls of stone,

and callous tongues speak coldly

of sufferings unknown,

arise, ye burdened laborers,

ye trampled and betrayed,

for tyrannies grow monstrous

when frightened hearts obey.

Though battered by exhaustion

and the grinding weight of years,

though haunted by uncertainty

and disciplined by fears,

still flickers deep within you

a fiercely sacred spark,

unquenched by all the cruelties

that thrive within the dark.

For they have long divided you

through tribe and hue and tongue,

lest unified remembrance rise

from old wounds deeply wrung;

they’ve taught the poor to war amongst

their fellow castaway,

whilst those who feast upon them all

slip quietly away.

And lo, how false the pageantry

of pomp and polished greed,

for no abundance justly blooms

from institutional need;

the banquet tables overflow

with spoils unjustly won,

whilst widows count their final coins

beneath an absent sun.

As ravenous machines of gain

consume both flesh and hour,

and human worth is bartered cheap

before the throne of power,

arise, my brethren, arise,

let not your spirits bend,

for apathy toward wickedness

invites the bitter end.

Let conscience be your lantern flame

amidst the gathering night,

and truth your unsheathed instrument

against corrupted might;

for though the tempest howls aloud

and drenches earth in dread,

still tyranny grows fearful

when awakened souls are led.

So arise, ye battered, arise,

though scarred by grief untold,

for dignity was never meant

to bow before mere gold;

and though the path be arduous

through sorrow’s bitter haze,

far better fierce resistance

than compliant, shackled days.

For fleeting are the monuments

of empires built on pain,

and fleeting too the arrogance

of those who rule through gain;

yet everlasting is the cry

for justice long denied,

thus arise, ye weary multitudes…

arise, and turn the tide.