Lord help us all, for this is only the beginning.
This is the Holocaust Part 2—so stay tuned.
They come in the night, but no sirens wail—
Only the quiet rustle of papers signed in secret,
Only the digital hum of an app designed
To make you disappear without a sound.
Self-deportation—what a polite little lie,
A campaign telling families,
"Stay out and leave now,"
As if the ground beneath them wasn't already stolen.
Tens of thousands gone in a month,
Not criminals—just fathers, mothers, dreamers
Who built the roads, cooked your meals,
Held up this country that now kicks them out.
The protests swell like a tide,
From Michigan to Texas, from Philly to Charleston,
Hundreds, thousands take the streets.
But voices are drowned by the slam of an ICE van door,
By the click of a judge's gavel,
By the silence of neighbors who turn away.
He sends agents in the dead of night,
Not for the guilty, but for the ones who speak.
A man ripped from the arms of his pregnant wife,
Not for a crime, but for daring to stand.
They call it "law and order," but I call it fear—
A government trembling at the strength of the people,
Clawing at its last scraps of power
By making enemies out of the innocent.
We can't speak up anymore—
Because speaking up means a knock on your door,
Means your name on a list,
Means your family torn apart like paper ripped in two.
But still we speak, still we march, still we rise—
Because silence is surrender, and surrender is death.
They think this is the endgame,
That fear will seal our lips,
That history will write itself in blood once more.
But history only repeats when we let it.
They don't hear us now, but they will.
They don't fear us yet, but they should.
Lord help us all, for this is only the beginning.
But beginnings are where revolutions are born.