Bastille Poem by Nishtha Trivedi

They hit, they knocked and they crushed,
every single brick and every single rock.
their bare hands bled but they did not stop-
Freedom, Equality and Brotherhood,
or death.

Through the towers high windows
a group of ants formed at its gates.
But they covered the fortress whole,
and with every falling brick,
proved themselves lions.

The fire of will,
it held their minds
and powered their hearts.
the fire of will,
it surged through their veins;
once ignited, it grew unstoppable,
bound to leave ash in its wake.

The majestic fortress had stood firm;
a mountain, cold and absolute,
defending its might come violent rain or strong wind.
The high towers concealed
the deepest dungeons,
with stone walls seemingly impervious,
and its gateway, tightly shut.

But its majesty soon to wither away,
this great mountain, would soon to succumb
to the swirling winds of change,
picking up the flame that began
right from within.

This fortress would prove itself unworthy,
against a nation’s cry.
For it stood for the tyrant,
the tight shut gates oblivious
to the raging fire.

Among shattered glass,
the crumbling bricks
and the falling walls,
the ancient regime will be left hanging,
only to be crushed under
the boot of reformation.

A cold statue; the tyrant
his vanity; as high as the towers,
any appeal, and every appeal, he stonewalled.
With a head so high up in the clouds,
he could never foresee,
the fatal blow that knocked
him to his knees.

Its majesty now reduced to rubble,
by the simple hands of peasants,
its glorious blocks were crushed,
left to be equal,
to blend into the land's soil.

As the nation rejoiced to see,
the once mighty façade now under their feet,
is this a revolt? No sire,
for the flags have been raised,
picked up by lasting winds of change,
and the blood of the nation imprinted
deep into the rubble,
to forever remain in the roots of the land,
to forever mark its glory,
for this is a revolution.