We have gone once more like before—
Even though the wound is still a sore—
For they said the wind was blowing
And the fowls’ yansh it was showing.
So we went, with our hearts and thumbs—
daring the bullets and the bombs.
Thumbed our silent voice, we did—
Some with conscience veiled with greed,
Some with hearts wounded and bled,
Some with eyes still wet for the dead.
Yes, we thumbed at the break of dawn,
Knowing within that we be but a pawn.
They had the whistle we had the baton,
(They chose the one to run the marathon).
But in the dark short corners they laid.
So they ran not on the tracks we made
And so as the chosen ones ran the race,
We only looked in hope from our place.
Ah! They have robbed us while we slept
And the fury of the fist is what we have left.
To the streets we go —our fists shall speak.
We’ll mark our marks with the stick —
Since the marks we made with our thumb
The treacherous ones have made dumb.
And speak we did —smoke tells the tale.
Sure, we left death behind on our trail.
Alas! We left behind too, cries and blood —
The breathing ink of our angry swords.
Now smoke engulfs our land, anger is spent.
Yet, tomorrow is still crooked and bent!