Freedom

A courier of peace; a coupon of hope Your cost, though, I have been made alien, Your fruitfulness I heartily grope. But the lashed back in servitude asks, “WHEN”? A befitting vestment on servitude A plague in the metropolis, Like the Gulliver in Lilliput. Amass not, thou in bit she seeks. Though thou enjoyed none methinks, ‘Cos denied is she, much she denies ye. But let that which we sought be unclink An ointment on our contuse, we pr’ythee. And should denial tend your way, At wrath, me be spared, I pray.