Or was it?
I want to believe
that equality was preordained
in some actual way.
I want to be free
to be leaderlessly fearless,
and not just a beautiful turn of phrase
that makes me ask
what gives?
What remains?
What lives
in your words,
in your trials and tribulations
that scratch away at the dirt
and crawling apocalypse
you left my people with.
I am no Moses;
I am Matoro, except that I live
harder, and faster, and stronger,
each time I rise,
and put on the Mask of Life
and resist the impulse
to die with dignity.
To reply with finality.
To pretend that this is consistent
with what you argue is written
in the blood you took from mine, and so many others' wrists.
In the hangman's nooses you slipped around necks, and those who were too fierce
for you to ignore, so you took them away from their kids, their homes, their families. You put them on the list
that I, and I alone, will remember.
Mata Nui has been revived.
The universe will ponder
what to do with your lies.
And how the Kristang will repair
all that was rent asunder
from the land,
and the hands that said
you are not a real man,
until you are dead.
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