The Yoke of Empire

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The Yoke of Empire
*********************
Beneath the shadow of a foreign flag,
The heavy chains of silent stories drag.
With tired hands and broken dreams they weep,
In lonely graves the world forgot to keep.
***
Upon the shoulders of the weary man,
The master sits to rule his fleeting span.
One carries pride, and one must bear the chair,
A frozen picture of a world unfair.
***
The master wears a coat of shining thread,
The servant walks where only shadows tread.
Like deep roots trapped beneath a frozen clay,
The common people bleed their lives away.
***
The hands that built the mighty ocean fleet,
Are left to die in dust upon the street.
They stand like ancient banyan trees in the gale,
Though bent by storms, their spirit will not fail.
***
The ruler speaks of law and golden light,
But builds his palace in the deepest night.
A mother’s tear, an empty, barren field,
Are painful truths that power tried to shield.
***
The tyrant claims he owns the open sky,
Because he trapped a bird and watched it cry.
Yet freedom flows just like a river wave,
No iron bars can make the soul a slave.
***
For history is not a crown of gold,
Nor clever stories that the kings have told.
It lives within the nameless souls who bled,
Who shaped the world with every step they tread.
***
The master lives inside a borrowed name,
The worker carries all the world and shame.
But when the final book of time is read,
The stars will crown the heavy hands instead.
***
The heavy yoke is fastened to my neck,
I plow the earth and move at human beck.
Our silent strength has built the master's throne,
Two weary hearts that suffer all alone.

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