"Those Who Find Fresh Gallows"

 

The master will be found graven by dawn,
exposed by the bright light of truth
and buried deep in exasperating thoughts,
left in capitulation by united workers
whose sight is only of a new utopia.
He, this master, will beg forgiveness in the new hour,
but not from remorse, for his only enterprise
is to save his thin neck from fresh gallows,
stricken in the dawn with his fellow giants
of whom defecated at the last snap of the body.
This man, this despicable master, is deplored;
he who had too much and gave too little
will benefit from the profit of the masses
by a quick, judicious and rightful death,
and, by night, his precious things will be dispersed.

I cannot say that I am of the revolution,
nor that I am induced to enjoy the spoils
of bloodshed and murder that must commence,
but I am of the people and therefore
must remember an open heart to those valiant brothers.
How they rise up in the night, these patriots,
and take to the streets with disregard to life and limb
for the advancement of my own sake and own people;
I would be a great fool to disregard their honor
though they may perish before dawn.
"Go now, my brothers," I impart with fervor,
"and fight for the peace that is to come,
forgiving me for my infirmity of fear
that keeps me shuddered in my home
only hoping that a new order will come."

I think of all the great endeavors of philosophy
(republicanism, colonialism, communism, nazism, capitalism),
and all have been spoiled by man, touching
the golden coffers of the people for his own pocket
and abetting the widening gulf between rich and poor.
Shame rattles the confines of my conscience
as I turn my face to the mirror,
seeing before my knowing eyes a man
who never found reason to question the current foundations
because comfortable luxury was given by a day's wage.
Nothing is wrong with the sweat of an honest man's brow,
but where is the true gain? who is the true master of my destiny?
I tremble at my self-dejection and instead
of crumbling to the ground as a pile of ashes,
I take up what weapons I know to manage.

I take up my pen and paper
and begin striking out words of liberty,
of freedom from the living tyranny…
"when in the face of tyranny, slap it,
beat it down until its blood curdles in the mud…"
If they come for me, those falling men,
I will at least have stood as a man
who knows firm conviction and understands
the import I have shouldered, ready to die
in the steady aims of their raised rifles.
Some may say that stray bullets are better fired
from my hands than direct words, but
it is not so, for words are what inspire
men's hearts when they are weary of struggle
and with them, you can revitalize a movement.

You, man, on that sad height, do not
let your last breath be ushered only on the wind,
give spirit to that wooden body and dance
on the tempestly woven strings of the Fates
to the beat of the drums of courageousness.
Why let your souls be animated after the victory,
when the timber of your voice has weight,
when the muscle in your arm has strength,
when the nation of your birth has need,
when the cause of your people has asked?
Think of how the masters favor the dog
that neither barks nor bites at him,
that only sits at his feet with his head in his lap,
that only causes a fuss when fingers snap-
are you such a man, so beaten into understanding?

I must lash out with every fiber of fury
and bite the hand that begrudgingly feeds me,
announcing that the days of handing pennies to the poor
are over and a larger portion of the feast
will be mandated for the hungry to eat.
Rich apostles of the new god, Just Capitalism,
come eat from my hands and taste the poison
that is in my dish every night, for once,
and let the flavor of desperation linger in
your stomach, ground glass hidden in your nourishment.
I can be still no longer, taking no more
reprimands for my good conduct of citizenship
that equals servitude to the houses of glass and steel,
which usher out to the greedy politicians
the dictate of the moment in the name of equality.

The streets writhe in praised rebellion,
the houses of the spiritually dead ring with alarm
and call for the support of those they have supported,
leisurely reminding of the gravy trains in good times,
never having fully believed the possibility of bad.
The illusion is shattered with angry arms
that ring as clear as church bells on a Sunday morn,
announcing the fall of another imperialist deity
and the lifting up of another who may be as tired,
who may deliver more misery and lame speeches.
No more deities will reign after this injunction of terror,
after the night has cleared of smoke and delivered
for all people a united brotherhood of man
where true equality has a slight opportunity
for a fresh breath of air between uprisings.

I am a dreamer, yes, whose hopes
will vanish when another president, or dictator, is born
to the outhouse of power that is smothering,
foul and rank, disguised by pretty paint
and cunning words that lead afoul.
"Four legs good, two legs better,"
they may one day exclaim to the surprised ears
of a workhorse, an ass, the constantly herded cattle
that rattle about in the field of new development
worrying on the length of the good weather.
To the next promise a toast of longevity,
may I be resigned to know peace then
as I linger about in the rays of the sun,
in self-imposed exile that is luxurious and soothing,
bathing in the refreshing waters of utter indifference.

 

8 Feb 00