CRY MY PAPUA NEW GUINEA BY Dr Bullshit Artist & Punk Monkey, The Poet In The Wind, Scribbler Dibblers Under The Okari Tree

A prose of lamentation, cry, my PNG

Dr Bullshit Artist

Cry, My PNG

By Punk Monkey, the poet in the wind

Via Transformation PNG WhatApp Group

Port Moresby

25th MARCH, 2025

When the sacred cry of free speech is muffled, when the truth is buried beneath a blanket of silence, the Constitution our most revered document, becomes naught but a hollow relic, a mere ghost of its intended power. It is but an inscription on fragile paper, as inconsequential as the rustle of a falling leaf in an indifferent wind. Bereft of life and meaning, it crumbles to dust in the hands of those who should guard it, leaving behind only the faintest echo of a once-immovable ideal. Democracy, the heartbeat of a nation, quivers on its dying breath, and the foundational pillars that once stood tall, unshaken and steadfast, now tremble and collapse under the weight of tyranny’s creeping hand.

And when the voices of the people, those sovereign arbiters of change, are stifled, the very essence of our nationhood evaporates. What once stood as a proud and unwavering flame of independence now flickers faintly in the wind, a dying ember besieged by the cold gales of oppression. Our sovereignty becomes but a fleeting illusion, a mirage shimmering on the horizon, always out of reach, always dissolving before our eyes.

Papua New Guinea, my land of paradox, where the lush embrace of nature coexists with the volatile fury of change, once an Eden of untamed beauty and unbridled possibility, is unravelling. What was once a land of vibrant discovery, where every dawn birthed a new mystery, now simmers like the last remnants of a dying fire. The bright colours of our collective future are fading, leaving behind the charred remains of dreams that can no longer sustain themselves. We stand witness to the slow erosion of our sovereignty, as it crumbles to ash, carried away by the winds of neglect and corruption.

And in this mournful dance, I hear the anguished words of Sir Edmund Burke ringing louder than ever: "Evil thrives when good men do nothing." Those words, bitter and true, gnaw at the soul. For our elected guardians, who swore an oath to protect and preserve, have become nothing more than passive spectators in a grand tragedy. With hands folded in apathy, they watch, indifferent, as the very fabric of our society unravels before them. Oh, my beloved country, my Papua New Guinea, once the marvel of the Pacific, now reduced to a shadow of its former glory, its brilliance dulled, its promise squandered upon the altar of neglect.

In this lament, my heart bleeds for the death of free expression, that most sacred of rights, the very marrow of our humanity. I ache for the days when our voices rose in unison, bold and unfettered, casting their light upon the darkness. We were once dreamers, dreamers with wings that soared beyond the stars. But now, as the winds of change howl like a relentless storm, we find ourselves clinging to the last vestiges of hope, our voices now but whispers against the raging torrent of oppression.

Yet, still, there is hope, a fragile thread, a spark, a flickering flame that must be nurtured. We must gather the courage to reignite the fire of democracy, to breathe life into the silenced voice of the people before it is snuffed out forever. For if we do not, we shall be lost, not as a nation, but as a memory, a forgotten dream that fades into the winds of time.

Cry, my Papua New Guinea. Cry, for the soul of our nation aches.