Freedom
Will you turn an ear to the haunted sound children
Will you feel the beat of the human condition thrumming in your veins
Taste the sadness and longing, begot by our own who suffer in the shadows of their own
demons, To create a universe with soul and zen with a bic pen on my skin an folded napkin
Chatting with the priestess of the lower east side, while she weeps for her father who died by
the way of the needle, and her left alone to fight the deathly cold in Rochester
Somewhere in darkness intertwined with castoffs of the bastard generations
Beneath the hot top laden rivers of rage and power, built with sweat of all
those seen and yet, unseen, Take flight upon the wings wrought of the voices of the
downtrodden, dispossessed, beaten but not broken my dear friends, not broken in soul or in
heart, to give their words anchor and strength, to fight the good fight within endless days
and suffering nights, chase away the fears and tears, give a hand and understand children
what is up to us, to you, in all we feel, speak and do, dont turn down the screams, the cries,
an dont forget for all which our loved ones died, across foreign seas to foreign sands, it don't
take much to lend your hand,
The darkness surrounds, but we'll wait on our dawn, to which all our fragle hopes belong
This country, this citadel, our home, our people, one and all, our hope, our oneness....
Our America.
©R.Chirino IIII
6/23/15
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