Who is the tyrant who fears the dawn,
Who builds his empire by dividing the drawn?
Who feeds on hatred, makes fear his law,
And calls submission the people’s awe?
Who crowns his prejudice with the nation’s name,
Then brands dissenters enemies of the flame?
Who turns our differences into a wall,
And whispers that freedom belongs to some, not all?
I am the shadow behind the prayer,
The hand that turns devotion into a snare.
I take the sacred, sharpen the sword,
And sell obedience as the will of the Lord.
I dress intolerance in robes of faith,
And call every question a dangerous wraith.
I build my kingdom on divisions unseen,
And punish the spaces where minds remain free.
What is the beast that feeds on applause,
And writes its hunger into laws?
It wears the robes of the people’s choice,
Yet trembles at the people’s voice.
It waves the flag, invokes the past
And promises glory that cannot last.
It wins the ballot, then steals the key;
Tell me, is this democracy or tyranny?
What is the book that has no face?
Yet stands between the mighty and disgrace?
It has no sword, no army, no throne,
Yet guards the weak against the stone.
Its pages are written for all to read,
Its promise is justice, its purpose a creed.
But what becomes of a nation’s soul
When the judge takes orders, and the tyrant takes control?
Who is the gardener who poisons the well,
Then blames the thirsty for the smell?
Who divides the orchard into names,
And teaches the branches to set each other aflame?
One tree is holy, another profane;
One fruit is worthy, another a stain.
But when the axe comes for the wood,
Will the chosen tree alone stand good?
What is the weapon that makes no sound,
Yet brings the walls of tyranny down?
It travels in whispers, in ink, in song,
It gathers its strength where the silenced belong.
It lives in the question that refuses to die,
In the courage to challenge an official lie.
It grows when the stranger is welcomed as kin,
And hatred is denied the place to begin.
What is the candle that outlives the night?
Not the flame that blinds, but the one that gives sight.
It burns in the classroom, the courtroom, the square,
In the courage to question, the freedom to care.
It lives in the poet who refuses to praise,
In the witness who remembers the forgotten days.
It shines in the hands that refuse to divide,
In those who stand with the persecuted outside.
And what is the wall that no tyrant can scale?
Not stone, nor iron, nor prison, nor jail.
It is a million small refusals to bend,
A hand held out to a threatened friend.
A vote that is guarded, a truth that is spoken,
A promise that justice shall not be broken.
A faith that does not demand another’s chains,
A law that protects even those it restrains.
What is the nation, and who owns its name?
Is it one language, one faith, one flame?
Is it one history, one sanctioned song,
Or the million lives that have made it strong?
Can a country be whole when its people are torn,
When some are declared unworthy by the land of their birth?
What flag can fly with honour and pride
When its own children are pushed aside?
So answer me, traveller, before you depart:
What keeps tyranny from conquering the heart?
Is it the sword, the decree, the throne?
Or the knowledge that no one owns us alone?
Perhaps the answer is hidden in plain sight:
The dawn is not given; it is made by the light.
No saviour descends from a heavenly throne,
No single brave hand can do it alone.
When temples grow taller than human worth,
When tyrants mistake themselves for the earth,
When laws become servants and truth becomes crime,
The bells must be heard before the end of time.
And if you ask who shall open the gate,
Who shall challenge the powerful, question their fate?
Who shall defend what the ages have won,
When the tyrant declares that the struggle is done?
Look into the mirror, but do not look away.
The answer is not hidden in some distant day.
For the riddle has waited through centuries of night:
What is the one thing a tyrant cannot command?
A conscience awakened. A people united.
A truth that refuses to die.
And a thousand voices rise
To question the lie.
For fascism thrives where silence is sown,
And tyranny flourishes when fear is enthroned.
But no empire of hatred, however vast,
Can imprison a people who remember their past.
The final riddle is this:
When the law is betrayed, who shall defend it?
When faith is weaponised, who shall transcend it?
When freedom is threatened, who shall stand tall?
The answer, my friend, Is not one person.
It is all.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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