Socialism is not a dirty word—
It is the hope that flowers
in the cracks beneath glass towers,
whose windows only reflect the sky
and never the silent feet marching below.
For years—no, for centuries—billionaires
have gilded their gates
with words:
lazy, dangerous, utopian dreamers,
as if dreaming of bread for every table
was a sin against profit.
They paint us as thieves,
while they sign papers that steal our hours,
our backs,
our breath.
Turn on their news—
Watch them clutch pearls,
label solidarity subversion,
teach us to fear our neighbour’s hunger
more than the fattened wallets
in the hands of a chosen few.
Yet every paycheque cut by unseen scissors,
every bill that multiplies in shadow,
every midnight shift traded for tomorrow’s survival—
these are the truths
not told by shining ads
or hollow campaign slogans.
We’ve swallowed their stories whole,
forgot we write our own;
It’s time to unlearn the shame,
the programmed suspicion
of hands held together.
Let us have a revolution of the mind.
Let us say the word—
soft at first, then proud—
socialism.
Not the enemy,
but the medicine
for wounds that gold cannot stitch.
Imagine:
No billionaires,
no kings over crumbs.
Just people,
raised up together—
the real wealth
at last,
undeniably
ours.
