I saw you touch the raw ember of a fire
With naught but the purity of your tongue,
Calm set, poised heart held high
Vulnerable to all that might strike,
Centuries passed without cries parting
Your lips, ebony lips from deceased bones.
You stand on their outstretched limbs.
I felt you brush the land with nectar
For the benefit of cutting it away,
Barren earth displayed, riddled with rust
Yet tangy with the malicious force –
Force of those that set your fate
In immortality, the fame of those long gone.
A future in your quaking palms.
I know you with your high strung boots
Which trample all protests with a simple clack,
I know your fear, reverent in every quavering promise
Of life, of hope, of the rich honey that runs thick
In harsh blown trees and the thick rain on grass,
Your key is locked within the hollowed tomb of age
And time, to speak your rhythm to all.
You are the revolutionary, you are the start.