Three days and four nights spent 

Three years and four decades lent 

To the unraveling of entwined narratives

Mapping each face of righteous dissent 

I write and note, and jot down, and measure,

Having sorted through history, I close my ledger

 

But I wake up again at the start of the page

 

Fazed and undone, I fathom at the mystery 

At the unruly habit of redoing history 

I scribble again with vigour to map out the mistakes

To wake up again to the same bewitchery 

Unlearned and discarded, the stories are forgot 

The struggles bought, 

And martyrs marred, 

I labour again to rewrite and remind what was sought 

 

But I wake up again at the start of the page

 

Irked and betrayed, I speak what I sought to write 

Can my voice thunder over this historic blight?

My companions have pens, they now write in my place 

But something lurks from the shadows, ghastly and trite

We hold on to our pens, our words and our tales

But it’s getting misty, blurring the details,

 

And we wake up again at the start of the page.