1988
Somewhere in 1988
Amidst callused fingers and ink-stained pamphlets
Hands grip signposts
Trembling with strained muscles
The echo of ‘yes’ on the tip of their tongues
A whisper
Folded like ballots never counted
Somewhere in 1988
In a sea of raised placards
They stand up, push their way through
The crowd, the little ones rising on tiptoe
Trying to get a glance
Of the ongoing revolt
The older ones say
“No, you’re too young
Too early to worry about these things”
But they want to know, they want to choose
“What if the choice is mine one day?
What if the silence reaches me?”
Somewhere in 1988
Small hands are shaking, wishing to seek
The shelter and safety of larger ones
Yet they are met with nothing, nothing
Except discarded words, unanswered cries
There is no warmth
There is no escape
Somewhere in 1988
Salt streaks campaign leaflets
Promises fracture and fall
Evening swallows the last poster
The people, the scattered pamphlets
The crumpled ballots beneath their feet
Over the voices that
Silently marked yes
And gradually, wordlessly
Faded into history
