If your shell had been constructed of titanium,
Your machine-human mind, body would remain.
Then, what could they do
To stop you from constructing your words?
Failed by the coup’s force majeure—
Whose day of reckoning was fueled by a
Militant appetite for power—
You, a monk-turned-poet, and the people,
While you stood in and for peace,
Had your collective brain pierced.
To stop your poetic call for justice and liberty
(Your words too strong)
Their only ammunition to quiet your rally cry were
Desperately targeted, maligned shells,
Fired with hurried corruption and fury
Into innocent, huddled masses.
With their artillery of cowardice
They take their aim at you with their lead-filled bullets,
As you sharpen your lead pencil.
The legacy of your voice—
Decrying empty governance; reclaiming liberty—
Drives the next wave of revolution.
No prison, no policy, no militia—
Could contain
The roots of your words—
Inveterate, growing, waiting to be unearthed—
That are now watered with the blood shed,
And the earth of the country you so loved.
The roots of your words—
Unwavering, immortalized—
Are how you live on.