Sever the ties, you chosen ones.
Run from that which bound you, choking
on the ashes from which you rose – battered
but better for it.
For freedom is sweeter
and more precious when it’s wrestled
from fettered hopelessness.
Honey now drips from our tongues, and with
each drop a generation shall move forth; each one
less aware of our struggle…
and the last complacent faces will stammer about;
hollow wretched faces, ghostly and vapid.
Will they be our final legacy?
Or will the struggle begin again?
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