Our nation,
Known for poetic words
And gifts of song.
For bards and storytellers,
Scholars and academics.
Silenced.
Hushed to mechanical monotony.
Creativity pushed from view.
I stroll past a scrubbing brush
Soapy water
Washing away the evidence of a killing field
From a Graff war.
Its value held only in the eyes of the beholders who
Find beauty in the truth of street.
Art all around us, waiting to be formed.
Visible through the smog.
Look, listen, take heed.
Absorb the stories the pavements tell us.
The histories hidden in the walls,
In the sound of a breathless republic.
We the children of the tiger
Fear not,
Take charge,
Time comes
Urban chaos transcends
Deconstruct, reconstruct, find a voice.
Our arts not dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment