In My Days

In my days,
The modest mind isn’t a mind;
It isn’t one sought for words;
It isn’t one with thoughts extolled.
In my days, the quiet mind isn’t a mind.

The humble one is invisible,
Unpraised and unsought;
Unwelcome, unvirtuous,
In my days, the humble one is the fool.

And when words scream from reason;
When objections we invite,
we talk only for moments,
and hear our voices stutter.

In my days
we cry, we diffidents;
we seek rise from oppression;
Every same day, as our minds awake,
Rebellion sprouts one more measure.

Updated May 31.