the dead do not speak?
daily i wake up to crying voices of ancient hopes. liberty and prosperity seem like perpetual dellusioinal illusions. even after the blood shed, sweat and tears liberty remains a phantom of the hoped for the heavenly corridor that leads to the hall of fallen heroes is filled with subtle mummers of "was it worth it?" as they turn to see how we spit at their sacrifice. the poor are the echoing of the voices of those who laid down their lives. is this the freedom our fathers died for? they ask with tears in their eyes and anger in their heart. do you want to tell me the dead do not speak? when daily i hear their voices in the failures of the living.
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