Poetry

Land of the liberated

Her lips are frayed, her voice is numb. Her heart is heavy, her eyes are wrung. She’s marched and sang. Pounded the streets that were once chambers of freedom. But the man at the podium doesn’t hear her pleas to stop. The man in the big, old, white house. Slowly the dream named after her, starts to crack. People worldwide watch the show – some clap. Her spirit still rings out, as she claims that she’ll never stop. Always believing in the greater good, she keeps marching on. Red, blue and white are her stripes. A blend of vibrant colors, all unified. History has witnessed her stand taller then all. But will she now stumble, crumble and fall? 

Maalika Kazia

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