This time, 12 a.m. meant something. Not to one, not to a hundred. But to a nation, a couple hundred million hearts stronger than it used to be, synchronized.
Kings overthrown. Societies run over. The European powers wished to do business with our country. An agreement they wished for our kings to accept. A one way agreement, as it turned out to be.
Many agreed and many didn’t. The substratum hitch of monarchy would never fail to play its part. Countless stood up for their crumbling nation, as the English laid waste to more.
The freedom of expression and the right to dissent failed to exist. Liberty had ceased to resist.
Brutality was now a feather in the cap for the English, or a jewel in the Queen’s crown.
Babies crying in the maternity ward, weren’t the only cries that echoed down the halls.
Rags to riches had finally been inverted in meaning, and even implemented. For them, Elvis never seemed to leave the building.
A hundred years forth; the war cries and the tales sounded like they came from the end of the rainbow.
The weary hands of the old grandfather clock struck 12. It sounded the same note it always did, over and over; but this time it was music. Time stood still. Reality was a slowly clearing fog. Words would never sound the same. Sentences, stories, happenings; no more forced upon naïve minds like bullets from a rifle. This time, 12 a.m. meant something. Not to one, not to a hundred. But to a nation, a couple hundred million hearts stronger than it used to be, synchronized. They had left. They withdrew. We were, our courage, our struggle, our sacrifices would be our history, not notes on the margins of the annals of imperialism. The path that was taken to this journey could never be completely explained by four digits 1 9 4 7 – the year had more stories to tell than just digits on a calendar.
Godspeed arrived fashionably late.
