Beneath the still woods and roiling peaks,
Below the surface, where few could see, a fire was set
No headlines in newspapers, and no grand speeches.
The hearts of those who made presence to the earth their lives.
The air, heavy with murmurs of revolt,
Carried the stories of a race,
Whose hands knew the soil,
and whose spirits never bowed.
Their struggle was not adorned with glory,
No banner flew over their heads,
Except their prints in steps
Deep in the land, on roads of struggle.
Some voices, loud but not —
cried against invisible chains,
For the freedom they searched was more than flags,
It was the right to live, breathe, and be.
Their blood soaking into the tribal lands,
Became symbols of defiance,
By unsaid subplots, a rough tale;
But necessary as roots to a tree.
They fought for their homes, their gods, their skies,
With arrows, rocks, and song of the wind
Textbooks will not have this fight,
Yet inscribed in the spirit of this soil.
Their silence — a thundering roar,
Not Just A Plea For Freedom, But Justice
Then, even if the grinding gears of history forget you,
Their uprising pulses still,
In the very heart of our liberty.
YOU ARE READING
RHAPSODY
PoetryRhapsody is a collection of poems that reflects the complex tapestry of life. Each piece captures a moment. Through vivid imagery and heartfelt expression, these poems invite you to feel deeply and connect with your own experiences. In Rhapsody, wor...
