Metempsychosis
The soul slips free, but never leaves the stage—
It dons new names, new masks, new forms of rage.
Old wounds wear modern robes, yet still they bleed,
Still hunger speaks in ancient tongues of need.
A whip becomes a wage, a chain, a law,
The same old terror dressed in new faux awe.
The past does not retire—it repeats,
In replicates injustice on our streets.
An empire falls, a banner fades from view,
But seeds remain, and sprout in structures new.
We tell ourselves, we’ve learned, but turn our backs,
While history redraws its old attacks.
Favoritism rises clothed in policy,
Partiality disguised as liberty.
The soul migrates, but carries what it’s known—
A cycle spun until the truth is sown.
Yet metempsychosis holds this thread in place:
That change begins each time we dare to face
The past, not as an evil to ignore,
But as a map—so we repeat no more.
WoPoLi 
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