Mama, they gunned me down, murdered by those who thrive on our taxes,
Outside parliament halls I drowned, in a pool of blood bled by masses.
Settling scores, they relieved live rounds, hoping to kill the Dream and its axis,
From the Republic’s Hallowed grounds, orders exposed youth as nemesis.
Mama, we waved the flag high, surging in a tide of green, red, and black,
I, Rex Masai, marched with a bottle and a sigh, urging the tyrant to take a step back.
We’re a generation drowning in their lies, struggling bleak times in the dark,
We made a stand with our final goodbyes, angling to mark our nation’s arc.
Mama, streets became our homes and graves, we were bold with voices clear,
Unshrinking souls that refused to cave, to their bullets and sphere of fear.
Of a better homeland we sung and crave, craven too weak to let go of steer,
We made a stand, strong and brave, “dangerous” and “treasonous” despite our tears.
Mama, I’m personification of February 18th, the Dream cast as a nightmare,
Remember pains of June 25th, we birthed a New Republic on national glare.
Do not moan for my absent months, fallacy of tribes was laid to bare,
You should have seen me Mama, stand for truth, amongst youth of all skin and hair.
Mama, I know its gloom in my shadow, living in the doom of a casted sun,
Cast your eyes upon that empty cradle, Protest is a Right for every man.
It’s time youth saddle for battle, and hail struggles of third liberation –
Protest is Not a Crime for gallows, but a Fundamental Freedom free from guns.
