Haytem Fakroun (22-Oct-1977 / Tripoli- Libya)
People marching (Tunisia & Egypt first)
People were walking like some dead meat.
Like ghosts hovering with no feet.
Around the torch of the crowned seat.
Their death they could not cheat.
Cooked on burning fields of wheat.
Suffering decays of burning heat.
But that wheat they could not eat.
Suddenly, they talk to the street.
And the seat becomes obsolete.
Tyranny falls in echoing defeat.
Now they sing, and life is sweet.
Dancing on the victorious beat.
With freedom bells that shatters concrete.
And darkness will always retreat.
In front of people..
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