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Poem

You wear a crown forged in centuries of silence,
Not of gold, but of tears—each gem a wound,
Each jewel a stolen breath from lands unnamed.
The sun never set on your empire, Charles,
But neither did its shadow.

At seventy-three, you ascend a throne
Built on the backs of broken nations.
Malawi mourns not your reign, but its own hunger.
India remembers not your coronation, but its famine.
Africa, a continent whose blood was turned to diamonds,
Watches as you sit atop its bones, polished and silent.

How do you sleep in palaces older than justice?
With tapestries woven in denial,
And wine poured from the vineyards of suffering?
You speak of duty and devotion,
Yet your people starve under the illusion of unity.

The Commonwealth—what a beautiful lie.
A brotherhood of beggars before the banquet of kings.
You, heir not of wisdom, but of conquest.
Beneficiary of crimes so old they have become invisible.
You inherited the silence of the looted,
The riches built on the rupture of every sacred soil.

Where are your solutions, Charles?
Not in the silk of your robes,
Not in the gold leaf of your signatures.
The world cries out and you respond with ceremony.
You nod while oceans rise and children die in their sleep.

The kingdom is an echo chamber now.
Its walls grow thinner with every truth told.
The time of kings is passing—fast, fierce, final.
And your name will be carved not into stone,
But into the conscience of a world that woke too late.

Go, if you have mercy,
To the corners of your kingdom and kneel.
Not to be worshipped, but to weep.
Return what was stolen—not for glory, but for grace.
Because when the people rise—and they will—
History will remember not your title,
But your silence.

- A Voice from the Voiceless=

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