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For Tom's 1984 The Fall of Big Brother

In the dark soil
beneath the weight of stone and silence,
the meek are not mere shadows,
they are tubers,
reaching deep in furtive places,
attracted by the throb of earth’s abandoned wisdom,
nourished by murmurs
from organic charcoaled scrolls,
faded fusain etchings,
and ageless voices interred in the dust.

The surface cracks open in silence,
quiet shoots, that tremble at first,
slowly stimulate,
soon infusing the veins of the earth with life.
The weak do not break in fear,
they weave like vines,
twirling toward the zenith.
Each node they gather is a leaf,
each bud, a fibre of strength.
They do not rage with the storm,
but in the slow turning of seasons,
they grow...

The martinet’s canopy is but hollowed branches,
its strength is not in the vigor of its limbs,
but in the roots, it deems it controls.

Yet, roots multiply beneath the surface,
Silent, unstoppable,
Turning the soil until the earth itself rises.
The language of the world is written in the earth,
and the meek now speak it fluently.
They do not ask for permission.
They are the outburst of small things  
growing through cracks,
creating an unshakable forest,
overrunning the walls of the empire.

Through knowledge and unity,
they cradle the sun’s heat in their hands.
And when the crown falls,
it is not with a sound of thunder,
but with the soft rustle of leaves
that once whispered fear,
now screaming freedom.

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