It's when
The earth stops spinning around..
Nations fall down..
Cities are burnt to the ground..

It's when
The dust of democracy settles
In the throats..
Of the rights that as we know..

It's when
our voices are no more..
Or are merely past echoes..
And it's when we're left without heroes..

It's when
the sun rains..
And the clouds of hope burns.
When humanity is drunk..
When all that once was us is gone

it's when
the night falls upon..

It's then
An artist silently burns
Somewhere in a basement...
Creating his own sun..
Writing hopes in the yellow pages of era bygone..
Dreaming of glorious tomorrow that is to come..
Creating sticks of hope from his broken soul,
For his unborn child to hold..

©su_tshant