At times he’ll give blood and at times he’ll hide his identity behind the ink of his pen,
He’ll revolt but in a silent way, a path not taken by many men.
The pursuit of truth is his aim and to tear off the mask of injustice is his dream,
But his words sometime fall on deaf ears, no matter how much they scream.
The anger of the cane marks on his skin are let out by the words he writes on a page,
And the neglect for his words that don’t bring about change is what puts him in a blind rage.
But he took the noble way, for he picked up a pen and not a sword,
He’s a rare kind, for he still believes in and fears his lord.
He owes nothing, nothing but the truth that flows within his ink,
A truth he’s expected to hold onto and tell until his eyes can see them and can blink.
The heat of truth burns his hand but with a smile on his lips this pain he can take,
For the hope gives him strength, hope of the change that his words will make.
He roams around looking for a way to bring about a change in the society that lies each day,
A way to make his words find the culprit and to make him pay.
And so he braves the harsh conditions, the people, and fights the systems plan,
For he’s a writer and a member of humanity but he’s no country’s man.