2 minute read

I wanted to write a dissent poem,
but they said that not more than three lines can assemble together.

This is a one line dissent poem, claiming its individuality, shouting from the pulpit, saying that art doesn’t need your permission, that no laws can stop the million voices that reside in our poetry, that in our cities that are locked down, robbed of communication, of assembling in groups because you’re afraid of unity, because you talk of a partition while you try another, because you talk of history to history students, while you break our classrooms we read books on propaganda, while you rely on our cynicism we give each other hope where even an atomised individual can start life again, where a song defeats your hegemony, where you’re so afraid of us that you carry weapons inside our homes, where your power falls to its knees that it needs demonstrations on unarmed men. Do you tremble inside your riot gears when you hear our chants? Does your empathy reach out its hands as it embraces the flawed concept of nationalism, to choke us of our breaths?

Listen, fuck the one line poem.
Here is another line.
And another.
Full of full stops, but never ending.
We’ll multiply like bacteria.
You’ll call us vermin and we’ll carry the nation on our back.
Listen, you can hurt a poet but not poetry.
The songs are stronger than your ideologies that thrive on hate.
We’ll dance to your tyranny.
All art will be political.

We’ll paint it on ourselves.
I am a walking revolution.
I am my country.
My country is made of people,
not of religion, or ideologies, or one man who claims to be my leader.
I wanted to write a dissent poem,
and you kept on trying to take away my pen.
You should have known that angry poets don’t make for quiet voices.
Now, we’re shouting.

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