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My Honour, So I Object
Today I have no counsel.
No mouthpiece carved from conscience,
no briefcase of softened truths,
no evidence to prove innocence.
Just me— the accused,
standing in the ribcage of a collapsing courtroom,
where the gavel echoes like a gunshot in a cathedral.
But I will speak in a voice stitched from landfill smoke
and the static of forgotten warnings.
Because this is about honour. And I must object.
I did not poison the oceans, greed did,
I did not choke the animals, pride did
I did not warm the earth— hatred did.
I did not pile up landfills, uncontrolled ambition did.
I did not create the disposable culture, convenience did.
I plead not guilty, nor do I claim my innocence.
I did not clog the riverbeds, but I was found there
like a fingerprint on a crime committed by indifference.
I did not strangle the coral, but I was wrapped
around its throat like a silk apology.
I did not silence the birdsong, but I was lodged
in the beak when the singing stopped.
I did not fill bloodstreams with microplastics
but I shimmered there, a sliver of forever swallowed willingly.
All the protests—I understand.
But pruning the branch won’t cleanse the root.
I am not the root. I am the residue.
Now the court has arrived in robes stitched from recycled guilt,
demanding I dissolve like attention spans or empathy.
So, I ask— not for mercy, but for memory.
Not for pardon, but for reckoning.
And instead of raising voices against me— just let go of vices,
and I will be ready -for the swallow of gallows.
Copyright ©
abdul Mannan
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