Whose Independence, Whom?

Sir, listen to the turmoil churning within this shackled chest! Why should I lift my hands and proclaim anthems of liberty to the sky, if the banner of freedom only flies over ground that denies us a foothold? Whose liberty is it, Sir, if the trumpet of triumph only rings true for those deemed physically perfect in your sight?

Look at the golden-inked scrolls, the certificates of profound knowledge I fought for until late into the night, now merely a sorrowful mat by the roadside. The esteemed titles of scholars have vanished without a trace, replaced by the discordant plucking of strings for a mere mouthful of rice beneath the dust of your army, Sir. What use is the crown of knowledge, if in the end these hands are only left to beg for alms on the pavement?

Even as the nation's wealth transforms into enchanted mirrors with glass screens, its doors are tightly locked against us. That mirror demands a flawless countenance and a certain sparkle in the eye that we are unable to offer. We are blocked at the gates of your own fortress, as if the very arteries of livelihood in this land were only forged for those capable of gazing at their reflection without blemish.

But what truly wounds the soul, Sir, is when you and your people crown us with misleading tales. You call us 'inspirers,' you extol us as conquerors of destiny, as if this suffering were a magnificent spectacle deserving of theatrical applause. We are not monuments to awe, Sir! We are blood, flesh, and breath, your equals. We do not need hollow praises that lull justice into slumber; what we demand is the right to stand as equals on this very same earth!

If you continue to bury our rights beneath the grandeur of your throne, then know this: the cry of freedom you proclaim annually is nothing more than a delusive whisper in the dark night!