By JH Sayyar
O land where rivers carved the ancient stone,
Where poets dreamed and martyrs paid the price,
Now shackled tongues and silent votes bemoan
The stolen dawn beneath a veil of white lies
What was forged in blood and ballot’s grace
A promise writ in ink of old people’s will,
Now lies interred, a mask upon its black face,
While tyrants feast and justice’s hands grow still.
No more the cry of crowds for truth is heard,
The press now whispers what it's told to say.
The gavel sleeps, and the law a broken word—
And dark night devours the embers of the day.
Yet still, in hearts, a stubborn candle burns—
For even graves know that the spring returns.
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