It was once proclaimed
The voice of the people, is the voice of God

Yet when the people spoke

Their voice was not heard

Drowned by vociferous egos

It was disregarded

And rather ignored

Like a quiet and unwelcome breeze

On a chilly night

Their cries became more desperate

As the people magnified their voice

And became like a howling wind

On a stormy night

Yet when they shouted louder

They were silenced, like a noisy gong

Crushed with a heavy hand

And bludgeoned to death

Their blood sputtered
Staining the streets

On which they once sang

Songs of freedom

So they were silenced

And their voice whittled

To a distant echo

And background noise

A furtive whisper

And an occasional murmur

A barely audible sound

The voice of the people
Became a silent fart
With an obnoxious stench

Questions were asked

Was the voice of the people

Ever really the voice of God?

Would anyone dare to silence him

If he chose to speak?

Perhaps then, the voice of the people

Never was, the voice of God.

But rather, a collective wish

That could be casually dismissed.

Matilda Moyo