I am my mother’s son,
Born of her blood, her breath, her fight,
A cord cut but never severed,
Who dares strike the root of me?
I’d burn the hand that bruises her,
Yet cowards in red caps cheer the blow.
Grinning, hollow men led by a swine.

I am my sister’s brother,
Shield to her storm, her echo, her kin,
Her voice a storm they fear to hear,
What man stands proud to choke her out?
Not one with a spine, not one I’d name,
They root and crawl, their bellies in mud
Marching blind, in red and orange shame.

I am my wife’s husband,
Vowed to her soul, her strength, her choice,
A bond they’d cage in rusted law.
Who spits on love and calls it right?
I’d shred their banners, topple their lies,
But they strut, grinning, pigs in ties.
Let their orange master squeal as it dies.

I am my daughter’s father,
Guardian of her dreams, her dawn, her infinite skies,
A world they would shrink to fit their palm.
What beast would claw his own child’s wings?
None but the vermin parading as men,
None worthy of the air she breathes,
Yet here they squeal, orange and obscene.

I am a man, not a blade to wield,
Not a fist to raise against my own,
My mother, sister, wife, daughter,
All women, all roots, all mirrors of me.
To wound them is to bleed myself,
So why do these men not cringe to see?
They march with pride toward their own ruin.

Shame should choke them, silence their roar,
Every man’s a mother’s son,
And no man’s soul survives the sin
Of striking hands that shaped his core.
MAGA swine can squeal and preen,
They’ll reap the rot they’ve sown in green.
Their ruin the debt to the women they’ve torn.

About plants’ pesticide loads,
they are silent.
About lectins’ gut havoc,
they are quiet.
About oxalates’ kidney stones,
they are muzzled.
About nutrient deficiencies,
they are still.

About monocrop massacres,
they are silent.
About poison-drenched fields,
they are quiet.
About harvester bloodbaths,
they are muzzled.
About the hypocrisy,
they are still.

    But whispers rise, a rustling breeze,
    A crack in silence, if you please.
    The seeds of doubt, now sown and deep,
    May stir the slumber, wake from sleep.
    For truth, though hushed, will find its way,
    To bloom in light, another day.

    And so it goes, the cycle spins,
    The blinders on, where truth begins.
    They’ll sip their smoothies, green and bright,
    Ignoring shadows, shunning light.
    The silence reigns, a hollow sound,
    Where reason’s lost, and myths abound.

    Break the quiet, speak the name,
    Of hidden costs, and shadowed shame.
    Demand the answers, clear and bold,
    Let truth be known, let stories told.
    For silence feeds the hollow lie,
    And justice sleeps, while shadows fly.

    The fields remain, a painted scene,
    Where secrets sleep, and truths convene.
    A silent witness, earth and sky,
    To what is lost, as seasons fly.
    And in the stillness, one can hear,
    The echo of what they hold dear.

    And so they feast, with pious grace,
    On poisoned bounty, time and space.
    They’ll pat their bellies, green and full,
    And preach of virtue, strong of pull.
    The silence thrives, a verdant shroud,
    A self-made tomb, within the crowd.

The whispers fade, a muted plea,
A truth too raw for eyes to see.
The seeds they sow, in furrows deep,
Reap death in heaps where shadows creep.
For lies, though veiled, will crack and bleed,
A harvest grim, their righteous creed.
The cycle turns, a grinding wheel,
Beneath the plow, the voiceless squeal.
They gulp their kale, so pure, so grand,
While blood and bones enrich the land.
The silence cloaks a brutal cost,
A paradise where life is lost.
Break the hush, unveil the toll,
Of shattered lives beneath the soul.
Demand the count, the hidden slain,
The fields awash in mute refrain.
For silence guards their fragile throne,
A myth upheld by flesh and bone.
The earth stands scarred, a muted cry,
A witness to the grand deceit they ply.
The rabbits torn, the sparrows shred,
Fuel the green they smugly spread.
And in the quiet, truth resounds,
A slaughter vast, where guilt abounds.
They feast with pride, their banners high,
On crops that **** beneath the sky.
They stroke their egos, pure and lean,
Ignoring graves beneath the green.
The stillness reigns, a hollow boast,
A creed that feeds on silent ghosts.