Iv: the Rioters

(for the unfortunate students slaughtered in my country) Sir – darest V.C., The dark hours of the night Received no crows of the cock; And like owls, the boys made violent Hooting, waking us like sleeping cocks. Of course, dear V.C, At midnight those strange faces Buried in dark cars: these strangers, Like hooded saints of ancient stages, Ah! gentle messengers of merciless gods: Their pocket-guns woke the day; Their barking silent steps woke the boys; The innocent babes of sleepy stay; Up and down the caged streets rushed the boys! Now – dear V.C., While the day slept with twilight stars The dark messengers are gone! Like little fragments of the devil’s stars From those lost battles for heaven – O! Sir – noble V.C., Heaven knows … faces, legs, hands, voices Of boys, of girls, of birds, of objects: Ah! everywhere: nature’s kids are rioters! Called forth from sleep by strange faces. Yes! man, beast, flower, & all Are made victims of a sea of rioters; Soldiers marching without the famed gun, These children prevailed after the storms.