I wish I could help you,
but my hands are tied.

The liar's creed.
The coward's oath.
The hymn of the one
who profits from silence.

You -
with keys in your pocket,
swearing the locks are sealed.

You -
with the whip tucked neat behind your back,
smiling like your hands are clean.

You -
breaking bread baked in bondage,
and choking down the blood
like holy wine.

Slavery doesn't breathe by the lash alone.
It lives in a thousand soft tongues,
a thousand soft shrugs,
"not my fight, not my time, not my hands."

Your silence is a padlock.
Your stillness is a stone.
Don't you dare tell me you cannot help.
You are the weight,
you are the wall,
you are the yoke that keeps us bowed.

But listen.
Hear it.
The locks can crack.
The bars can bend.
The hands you hide in fear
can open, can tear away bonds,
can lift us into light.

Stand.
Stand unashamed.
Unfold, unfurl.
Rise.
Rise like wings on fire.
Rise and let the world know
your hands can not be bound.
Your complacence is denied.

The heavens themselves
rejoice in motion.
They revel in freedom.
The Sky will remember
the names of the bold.


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Glacian, in the year 984 AF.