When a coup comes,
It’s born with the stroke of a pen,
In the raising of a hand.
The sword is almost an afterthought.
Because with the putsch comes a shove,
and your Freedom takes the fall.
When Revolution comes,
It’s born in the quiet moments,
Between the echoes of the shouts,
The burning begins within,
Because of each restriction and restraint,
In the aftermath of Freedom’s falling.
The coup is underway,
As your Freedom fails,
Will you fight for it or wail.
Will you rise up or fade away.
PS. Please check out the GoFundMe for my Poetry collection, In Media Rêves