Cri de Coeur Shekynah Angelene Samadan
Under impunity, there is an invisible hand that guides the man who has his finger on the trigger. Eyes on the target, it whispers. No one is safe when said man fears no one, not even the law. His vision is impaired by a state that favors their actions, that cleanses their tracks. One wrong step and his eyes turn red, angry like the heavy iron on their hips. Volatile at best, mercenaries at worst. The system churns out monsters like him, vomiting them out to fester into the veins of the city. To cause havoc and blame it on the innocent. To blame it on the sleeping slums just trying to make a living. He crawls like a parasite in the night, combing through not just in our urban homes but also in our deep, fruitful, rural lands. Masked with false judgement, he crusades in doublespeak and tortures the innocent to save face. His actions are riddled with belligerence and might. Does he not feel the pyre that burns within the people’s angry hearts? They are tired of being torched at the stake. Their indignant voices will overcome your loud sirens. Be afraid. It is high time justice rises above the violence they inflict, to remind them why they wear their uniforms and don their badges —to serve and protect the neglected, not the thieves.
60
