the bitter wind that burns the face
'I
sat out the revolution. I was schusy with my boolwork. A workable excuse.
One of the brightest topology grads got those frontal lobes splattered
inside a tank turret.
'I don't know.
'Sometimes I feel guilty, that I should have risked my life to earn the fruits of victory.
'And sometimes I get so angry at the violence they did in my name.
'Must all change be violent? We just wanted a chance to live our lives as we saw fit. We didn't say they were wrong and had to be destroyed. We just said we have a different idea, why not give it a chance?
'I've seen it so many times: gotta beat down anybody who thinks or acts differently. I mean, how can I be righ unless they're wrong?
'I guess I'm just immoral liberal scum: I think it's sufficient for me to conduct my life as I think fit, and to grant others the same freedom.'
-Patricia Metley
the hungry hounds in hopeless race
the summer wanes to winter's sear
the soldier huddles seeping fear
his youth is spent in yells of spite
and dawn evades his deepest night
the leaders chant their loathing speech
destroy bereave their strident preach
when midnight tolls the mob explodes
their torch and noose patrol the roads
their shadows dance in shrieking dark
their brothers jerk from branches stark
they burn the books and block their eyes
to foreign thoughts their faith denies
the bitter wind that bodes the day
that chides the ash where childern play
and fingers shutters fastenned tight
to keep within the cunning night
the meadows greet the morning blush
the soldier waits the sudden rush
for children's sake they challenge fate
for father's pain they fall in hate