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You hate the truth,
you try to quench it’s flame,
but it rekindles even more.
Woe to the foes of justice,
and to those who oppress others with power.

A fool’s gold,
lasts no longer than rain clouds.
and the evil doer knows no rest.

Woe to you, who steals from the poor,
in your own coins, you shall be repaid,
for the poor cry out with burning hearts,
with the ashes floating to heaven.

Woe to you who dwells on the suffering of others,
who plays the flute,
to someone’s bare footed agonizing dance ,
On the hot sand of the desert.

Woe to you who wants to silence this voice,
your attempts are like bullets to my heart,
only, I bleed not blood,
I bleed more ink.

©Cynthia.


Editors’s Note: This simply put is a writer screaming; you can’t shut me up from speaking for all.


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