The tyrant's hand, a shadow vast and deep,
Where murmurs fade and secrets softly sleep.
He thrives on stillness, on the quiet crowd,
Where voices falter, where no spirits shout.

For in the silence, fear begins to bloom,
A chilling doubt, a desperate, shadowed room.
To bend the knee, to bow the head in shame,
To lose one's self, to forfeit all acclaim.

Obedience thrives where courage withers fast,
A chilling growth that never long will last.
For freedom's flame, though flickering and low,
Can rise anew, a defiant, vibrant glow.

So let your voice, a fragile, whispered sound,
Break through the chains that hold you all around.
For in the chorus, rising strong and clear,
The tyrant's grip will weaken, disappear.