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Freedom Bares Its Teeth
Freedom isn’t a delicate flower;
It’s the fist that goes through the ground,
the teeth that grind at the chains,
the howl of a wind
that won’t ask for permission.
I refuse to bow to the crumbs of tomorrow,
I won’t let my bones sink into decay,
a shell waiting to grow scraps.
I’ll carve out freedom
from this stubborn rock—
bloody-knuckled and relentless.
Do not tell me that patience is a virtue.
Patience is the poison they peddle
to keep you under control.
Freedom roars. Freedom bares its teeth.
Silence will never hold my name.
Copyright ©
Ramon Riveraalmena
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