Empty streets recite the lyrics of sovereignty to the frigid dignity. The detained hero is fallen to harsh bellies, condemned for standing tall when the stooped quieted their voices and ducked bullets from multiple gashes. The land weeps for the slain who the endangered now see as the fortunate ones. They are fortunate in death; their horror, anguish are shaved off with sudden animalistic transition. They were fortunate when the night is as horrible as the day and demise awaited at the doorposts of time. There is nowhere to hide from the harm that has engulfed the land where the sun still rises. No hiding place on the land which the marginalised own. No one knows when the end to this terror will come And no one knows what future holds for the living. If the hero makes it alive, the streets will live again But life will remain the same, until freedom comes.