The Weight of a Single Voice
A ballot is a quiet thing,
No louder than a flapping wing,
Just paper, ink, a modest mark,
Yet it has stirred a nation’s heart.
For power does not shout or blaze,
Nor crown itself in gleaming praise;
It grows where many voices blend
A whispered choice, again, and again.
One vote may seem so small, so slight,
A candle in a pitch black night
But flames will gather, catch, ascend,
And from their glow, new dawns begin.
Some marched for this. Some bled. Some fell.
Their footsteps echo, fierce as bells,
They dreamed a world where all are heard,
Where hope is not just spoken word.
To vote is more than choosing names,
More than the turning of the page;
It’s claiming stake in what shall be,
It’s saying: we shape history.
So stand. So speak. So let it be known,
Your voice is sacred. Yours alone.
The future waits in silent rows
Go to the polls. The whole world grows.