We often sit down beside the
Knoll, dripping streams of tears
Down our cheeks to our robes
That shared the color of our hair.
We often sit down on stools
Consoling the bereaved at those
Weeping punctuated funeral of
Those who pursued a just cause.
We often share those sordid
Environs with our friends, who,
For standing for the truth, are
Awaiting the executioner in the jail.
With hope, we will always, after
The storm and the rain of injustice
Is calmed, sit down to share drinks
Over the dead bodies of the unjust.
YOU ARE READING
MIDNIGHT SUN
PoetryToday, we ought to wear our gauntlets, Put on our amour and canvass grits, Forward! Though our sword are skillets, We win even though we lost by bits.
