PoetryClaire de lune
  • Grey, grim, ghastly; do you feel the foul air
    Of the city that is floating o'er us?
    Filled in the content, nothing but despair
    Of its mortals, whose soul is left to rust.

    People rush, push, dash, to be on time
    That their bosses told them to be.
    Faster! Faster! Faster! The shouts rhyme.
    Otherwise, their vital wealth will flee. 

    We are pushed. We are pulled.
    We are forced to take the job
    That our happiness never rules.
    And when we know, our heart sobs.

    More! More! More! The parasites demand
    To suck the blood, the sweat, the soul
    Of million hard-working hands
    whose remnant never enough to fill their bowl.

    We create ten, they take nine.
    We produce five, but one is left
    and expected that it will make lives shine.
    Shine it is, not the life, but internal fire.

    Stay! Stay! Stay! the crown demands
    To rule our lives, to limit our rights,
    To deprive our freedom, so that we,
    The true possessor of ourselves,
    Reluctant to commit in fights.

    No matter how many time we vote
    To change the type of the crown,
    The true freedom will never be found
    Since the tyranny is encoded
    In the presence of hierarchy.

    Hence, rise! And join hands.
    No more tax from our goods.
    No more oppression to our band.
    All we make is for all, not a sole group
    Who does nothing, but loots.

    Say, we shall be free.
    Free from greedy hands.
    Free from all decrees.
    Free in this collective land.

    And when the hands are fused,
    The crown is scattered, the parasites, thus,
    Are crushed, the foul air will be infused
    Not by grey, grim, ghastly luctus,
    But by free, cherished, shining spirits.
    From all, to all; our lives shall last indefinite.



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