Song of the Voiceless Choir

Times are changing and so are the rules. Society protects its own. Outcasts are being created at an alarming pace as definitions shrink in scope. The Other expands. Division designed, so blatantly so, to fracture that which is broken; eyes averted by paper tigers while leopards feast and face; no repercussions for acts inhumane, for demeaning those already weakened. Tampered dissent before it begins, allies only within.

 

We have no voice and yet we scream.

 

The issue becomes to create an enemy from that which you fail to acknowledge; on one hand a danger the other, empty yet the scales must be made to balance. 'How can they hate what they know not exists?' Whispers in the dark. Four letters came to mind but one more prominently so; bound together by history and honour, an alliance of the ages. One... Little... Push...

 

We have no voice and yet we scream.

 

The true shame happens to lie in the truth, for the crosshairs avoided us; for despite their cunning, despite their contempt, how can you target that with nothing? Their attacks are strategic, a war of attrition, a knife against the wood; to whittle away the land we claim as quickly as it changes. Shifting sands make for a demoralising abode and trenches worse still; life unsure of where and when the knife will take again.

 

We have no voice and yet we scream.

 

They took from us our names, our titles merely optional; knowledge of us restricted, taboo, taken from general view. Existing in the corners, the fringes of the fringe, our voices echo, carry heart, but fail to reach the core. Those that do flip the coin, the dices are weighted too; in the end, the house always wins and the choir continues its round.

 

We have no voice and yet we scream.

 

In spite of it all, despite their fear, despite even their hate, their mission will never succeed; we aren't an idea they can kill, an ideology to be removed; we will always remain, in one form or another, one word or another, weavers of our own fates. You cannot control that which you don't understand, nor kill that which you lack the eyes to see. We have a voice, just not for them, our breath too precious to waste; hope will out as our time comes, invisible but always in place.