They whisper of a time before,
when silence clothed the nameless poor,
when hands unshaken, doors unseen,
kept justice locked in halls pristine.

They yearn for myths of golden pasts,
where power stood on brittle glass,
but tides have turned, and winds have stirred,
the echoes now demand their word.

No real retreat, no vanished fight,
no dusk erases morning light.
The chains that bound, the walls that caged,
were broken not to be replaced.

South winds hum a different tune,
where voices rise, no longer pruned.
Ubuntu’s fire, Maat’s decree—
not fading dreams, but destiny.

Across the world, the anchors break,
as hands once bound now forge and make.
The fear of loss, the backward glance,
a futile, fractured, shadowed dance.

No real retreat, no vanished past,
no turning back, the die is cast.
For justice, once its seed is sown,
takes root in stone, in flesh, in bone.

Let them resist, let some deny,
the wheel moves forward, so must time.
And those who think the world stands still
will find they stand alone—until they realise.