The shores of history are clad by the shards of a People’s broken dreams
Yet we brisk barefoot and bruised, bearing the weight of our origins.
We’re a People shaped by Lakes, Valleys, Mountains, and Oral Hymns,
With tongues tied, latent brutal truths, and boneless hearts full of longing
In our isolated huts with cold hearths, we whisper within haunted halls,
Of brush with power’s hands, and of Handshakes bridging great divides.
Neither of rusty roads and sunken schools, nor moot of the loot in hauls,
Never challenging our absence in rooms and tables – or whatever decides
We never ask whether the Handshake feast nourished or left us hungry,
Yet, the dream of unity beams like sunrise upon the neck of the lake.
Under harsh mid-day truths, the mirage fades like fame in a hurry –
Tribe is a tool mooned over fools, hoarded by a few who divide and take
Flags of kinship are raised by the Political Elite – with the poor as pawns,
Patronage reigns as a jealous king, only favoring lineage and privilege.
Sons of Tribal Kings wine and dine, at the expense of the poor and his spawn –
A kinship claimed for convenience, the oppressor reaps from pilferage
The streets are awakening, an emancipation of masses – and across creeds
Empty coffers, broken promises – the youth revolt not for tribe but bread.
The children of the Lake, Valleys and Mountains arise in unison to bleed,
They will never again drink of poisoned wells or let fallacy of kin spread.
AN: Tribe is a tool of Division, sharp but brittle
