Whilst bequeathed
are the grasping wealthy
with pilfered, false grandeur,
plundered and encumbered
are droves of working poor.
As the rancid wind
of wrongness rages
and fiercely blusters
in your faces,
arise, my brethren, arise,
effect its due demise,
for benumbed you’ve been for ages…
arise, ye battered, arise.
For shackled are your weary limbs
by gilded chains unseen,
and dulled are noble minds
by contrived and poisoned dreams;
whilst hollow men of arrogance
in swollen excess bask,
ye toil beneath oppressive suns
and seldom pause to ask
why palaces stand radiant
as children starve in gloom,
or why the fruits of countless hands
so seldom freely bloom.
As venomous decrees descend
from towering halls of stone,
and callous tongues speak coldly
of sufferings unknown,
arise, ye burdened laborers,
ye trampled and betrayed,
for tyrannies grow monstrous
when frightened hearts obey.
Though battered by exhaustion
and the grinding weight of years,
though haunted by uncertainty
and disciplined by fears,
still flickers deep within you
a fiercely sacred spark,
unquenched by all the cruelties
that thrive within the dark.
For they have long divided you
through tribe and hue and tongue,
lest unified remembrance rise
from old wounds deeply wrung;
they’ve taught the poor to war amongst
their fellow castaway,
whilst those who feast upon them all
slip quietly away.
And lo, how false the pageantry
of pomp and polished greed,
for no abundance justly blooms
from institutional need;
the banquet tables overflow
with spoils unjustly won,
whilst widows count their final coins
beneath an absent sun.
As ravenous machines of gain
consume both flesh and hour,
and human worth is bartered cheap
before the throne of power,
arise, my brethren, arise,
let not your spirits bend,
for apathy toward wickedness
invites the bitter end.
Let conscience be your lantern flame
amidst the gathering night,
and truth your unsheathed instrument
against corrupted might;
for though the tempest howls aloud
and drenches earth in dread,
still tyranny grows fearful
when awakened souls are led.
So arise, ye battered, arise,
though scarred by grief untold,
for dignity was never meant
to bow before mere gold;
and though the path be arduous
through sorrow’s bitter haze,
far better fierce resistance
than compliant, shackled days.
For fleeting are the monuments
of empires built on pain,
and fleeting too the arrogance
of those who rule through gain;
yet everlasting is the cry
for justice long denied,
thus arise, ye weary multitudes…
arise, and turn the tide.
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 4:38 PM UTC
Whilst bequeathed
are the grasping wealthy
with pilfered, false grandeur,
plundered and encumbered
are droves of working poor.
As the rancid wind
of wrongness rages
and fiercely blusters
in your faces,
arise, my brethren, arise,
effect its due demise,
for benumbed you’ve been for ages…
arise, ye battered, arise.
For shackled are your weary limbs
by gilded chains unseen,
and dulled are noble minds
by contrived and poisoned dreams;
whilst hollow men of arrogance
in swollen excess bask,
ye toil beneath oppressive suns
and seldom pause to ask
why palaces stand radiant
as children starve in gloom,
or why the fruits of countless hands
so seldom freely bloom.
As venomous decrees descend
from towering halls of stone,
and callous tongues speak coldly
of sufferings unknown,
arise, ye burdened laborers,
ye trampled and betrayed,
for tyrannies grow monstrous
when frightened hearts obey.
Though battered by exhaustion
and the grinding weight of years,
though haunted by uncertainty
and disciplined by fears,
still flickers deep within you
a fiercely sacred spark,
unquenched by all the cruelties
that thrive within the dark.
For they have long divided you
through tribe and hue and tongue,
lest unified remembrance rise
from old wounds deeply wrung;
they’ve taught the poor to war amongst
their fellow castaway,
whilst those who feast upon them all
slip quietly away.
And lo, how false the pageantry
of pomp and polished greed,
for no abundance justly blooms
from institutional need;
the banquet tables overflow
with spoils unjustly won,
whilst widows count their final coins
beneath an absent sun.
As ravenous machines of gain
consume both flesh and hour,
and human worth is bartered cheap
before the throne of power,
arise, my brethren, arise,
let not your spirits bend,
for apathy toward wickedness
invites the bitter end.
Let conscience be your lantern flame
amidst the gathering night,
and truth your unsheathed instrument
against corrupted might;
for though the tempest howls aloud
and drenches earth in dread,
still tyranny grows fearful
when awakened souls are led.
So arise, ye battered, arise,
though scarred by grief untold,
for dignity was never meant
to bow before mere gold;
and though the path be arduous
through sorrow’s bitter haze,
far better fierce resistance
than compliant, shackled days.
For fleeting are the monuments
of empires built on pain,
and fleeting too the arrogance
of those who rule through gain;
yet everlasting is the cry
for justice long denied,
thus arise, ye weary multitudes…
arise, and turn the tide.
Arise was born from the belief that humanity has been conditioned to accept suffering, exploitation, division, and moral indifference as normal. The poem reflects spiritual erosion within societies that value productivity, wealth, and obedience over human dignity. Written as a warning and lament, it speaks to those who still question, grieve, and resist becoming numb to injustice or surrendering their humanity to power.
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