RIGHT NOW

Right Now/Tony Adamo the subway rumbles, a symphony of voices, spoken words drifting, like jazz notes swirling, through twilight streets, trumpet sharp, trombone smooth, the city breathes, tongues dance to the Latin beat. The Last Poets “When the revolution comes,” Politicians whispered sweet lies, promising dreams that were never theirs, while streets echoed with dreams denied, and voices drowned in blood-stained hope. Economies built on the backs of the weak, wealth for the few, while many stayed silent, coins of gold pooled, but hearts went cold, hands reached out but never united. The Last Poets rhymes like Hymns echoing in alleys, fingers snap, feet tap, words meet the pulse, the Congo thump lifts hearts, raw and real, hip-hop’s roots grow deep— But what has changed, in this swirling maze? Do we still speak the truth, shout over sirens, dream beyond the neon flash, with wide eyes, still fighting, still asking, for justice in our sound, each voice a vote, every story a song?