The poets get these people crowned,
Then find themselves in chains and bound.
They write the words that raise the stage,
Then rot in cells for truth, not rage.
We craft their lines with careful grace,
They turn and strike us in the face.
They steal our songs to win the crowd,
Then ban the voice that speaks too loud.
So maybe we should let them choke,
On speeches they themselves evoke.
No borrowed hope, no gilded lie—
Let silence meet their battle cry.
Let tyrants speak with clumsy tongues,
Let hollow words fall from their lungs.
The poet owes no king their flame,
No anthem, oath, or nation’s name.
We’ll write for those they cast aside,
For truth they’ve tried so hard to hide.
The poets bled—enough, no more.
We’re done with dressing up their war.
- Dedicated to and in solidarity with Darya Kozyreva, 19, who has been sentenced to nearly three years in a Russian penal colony—for quoting a poem to oppose Putin’s war.
