THE VOICE

Chiemerie Umeodinka

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Chiemerie Umeodinka

Sunday 24 August 2025

THE VOICE

I speak not for mine, but for the muffled screams,

For those whose voices wane, and lives stifled at their seams.

I voice the frail whispers of the torn and trembling,

Their gasps and shrieks , a world fast crumbling.

No simple tale,

No story to recount,

I echo the present, a grim account.

My voice embodies all three.

I am the past, a ghoul lingering,

Of identities long lost and wails deafening.

I am the present, a shackled hum,

Of battle cries before the silence numb.

I am the future, to be and not to be,

A shrivelled promise, soon to be undone.

Now, I voice the plight of then,

Of chains that bound the He and the She,

Of market stalls, their spices scattered, crushed,

And children's laughter, by a sudden silence hushed.

I voice the wails of those though brave yet blue,

On hallowed ground, their rightful claim they stake anew.

Yet there they fell, beneath the sun's ethereal haze,

While foes and woes mocked through recurring days.

Do you remember those singers, whose voices once a balm?

Pierced the conflicted, and bathed their souls in calm.

Carried the land's deep groans a whisper for freedom's name.

Then came the shot, a corrupting sound,

Stifling the light, letting the darkness abound.

Listen!

The weight of their woes, a burden I bear.

With my voice I testify, a whispered despair.

Now! I echo through the fear.

In the echoes of the now, a truth we barely face,

No childhood sting, no tears for scraped up knees

But real bullets sing through shattered, silent trees.

In the echoes of the now, where terrors deeply thrive,

Our identities they strip, to clothe soulless figures.

While innocent lives depart, in silence they are laid.

A faceless power on a barren seat,

Their cruel reign, a wound that won't retreat.

The land of now, once promised lush , now runs red,

Not milk and honey, but the tears of the dead.

The nations pulse now groans , by chorus of last words

Whispered in dying breath they throb.

From these groans, the future's beauty might emerge.

Listen! Like before, I speak for all.

As I echo their demands,

A steadfast call,

And let its truth help heal this troubled land.

I echo the future; a body of dreams in limbo they reside,

A symphony of foes forever mute, where discord meets demise.

I embody what is to come, a resounding moan,

From shattered whispers, a new world stands, on a newly carved stone.

If silence answers in this present now,

And all is empty, I echo naught.

Then our cries of ages past must rise; for my echo to claim the skies.

To have the resonance it yearns, as ancient wisdom softly moans.

Lest I forget, within this very hour,

We are shackled, stripped of all our power;

Our land, our prison's hold.

Thus, we revert on history's mournful train.

If now flows likewise, echoing becomes a burden.

I echo in silence to come, a fading sound,

Dwindling its strength, where no voice can be found.

Yet, I echo a laughter, piercing silence with glee –

A wild rebellion, surging, breaking free.

I echo shattered reflections pieced together, made whole.

A mosaic of memories, soothing the soul.

Whispers of life, banishing fear

For what will be will be, a truth we embrace.

If now is repaired, finding its rightful place.

Remember and heed this binding call!

I am the voice of all,

Hear our voice!, across the earth it will resound.

And rouse in chants and hymns to heal this land.

CUB. J PRINTS

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THE VOICE

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