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. Camille Rose Castillo