The century before the next,
They told us,
The hard times have passed.
Two thousand,
A number that cannot be altered.
Why is there crimson of
Two thousand innocents:
Disabled, children, and students
On that pen of a system
That devotes their lives to harmony?

The decade before the next,
They told us,
There is nothing to fear.
Two thousand,
Two hundred,
Numbers that cannot be altered.
Two hundred students sank with the boat,
Ignored and sealed,
Shouting their final wishes.
Where was the news?
Buried deep within the system
That devotes their lives to justice.

The year before the next,
Two thousand,
Two hundred,
Eighteen,
Numbers that cannot be altered.
Eighteen charges,
For bribery and political abuse,
But none for the ones who
Couldn’t claw their way out,
Screamed they wanted to live,
Suffocated and drowned,
Only to be pulled from the salt of the sea three years later,
All whom could have been saved with a single order.

Two thousand,
Two hundred,
Eighteen,
All numbers that the system cannot alter,
Let the dead attest
For the system that was never truly there.

But let us, the living,
Fight for a new system which
Accepts burden of the sins of the past,
No longer lets the innocent die needlessly,
And action is valued over lies and excuses.
Let the reborn system walk on a flower path;
be a friend than a foe.