The words I’m about to speak were stolen from my tongue
Now I’m spoken for by some deaf corporate soul with funds
Who distorts them all and sells them back to me in the form of newspaper
So my own story becomes new data
I wanted to be a verbal artist ‘cause I’ve got love for speech
But money talks and I can’t afford the pleasures of such luxuries
So I remain mum – like others in the place I came from
Now tears have replaced the liberating words I gave up.
So, should I play dumb and just accept and open
My mouth to recite new words in the form of slogans?
Why should I rejoice at a new voice if I don’t own it?
Why should I have an inner voice if I can’t expose it in sound
If my soul is renounced, then I’m as good as dead
If I didn’t love the stone house, I would have fled
But I remain hidden in the dark corners where I won’t be heard
Teaching myself to speak until I get lost for words …