The watcher in the wires

The screens are frosted, pale, and ever bright, A winter sun that never warms the land. The Party's gaze, a never-ending light, Keeps watch on every soul, on every hand. The children learn the slogans in their sleep, Each dawn a pledge of loyalty renewed. The fields of grain, where silent secrets sleep, Are watched by drones, a steel and watchful brood. They say our lives are better, safer now, No hunger haunts, no fear of outer war. But in the woods, beneath the hemlock bough, A different truth is whispered, evermore. A flickering flame, a word exchanged in shade, A shared glance that defies the Party's lies. The old songs hum, though publicly unplayed, A fire of memory that never dies. One day, a stone will break the frozen ground, A seed of doubt, where hope begins to bloom. The watcher in the wires, tightly bound, Will see his perfect order meet its doom. For even winter yields to spring's embrace, And frozen hearts can thaw and start anew. The struggle for the soul, the human race, Will find its freedom, honest, strong, and true.