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.
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