In the land where the sun first kissed the sea,
Where heroes bled for liberty,
A shadow grows beneath the gold—
A tale of power bought and sold.
The mango trees still bear their fruit,
But roots are tangled in dispute.
The rice fields whisper ancient songs,
Yet justice limps where it belongs.
Palaces rise on stolen stone,
While children sleep on streets alone.
The law, a mask with hollow eyes,
Winks at thieves in suit and ties.
They speak of progress, paved in lies,
Of roads that curve where truth still dies.
The budget bloats, the poor grow thin—
A cycle greased by silent sin.
But listen—there’s a pulse beneath,
A drumbeat rising from the grief.
From slums and schools, from farms and bays,
A voice begins to split the haze.
It names the rot, it breaks the spell,
It tolls the truth like chapel bell.
For even in this tainted air,
The soul of freedom still burns there.
So write, resist, remember well—
The archipelago shall quell
The greed that grips her fragile throat,
And rise again, on truth afloat.
