I
and as the placards
rise
i see the ghost
of a
red flag –
the distant lands of
centuries past
are among us
echoing with furious
leaders demanding
justice
for those who cannot:
quietened by the inevitable
hail of bullets.
II
and yet they are never
silenced:
scrawled words left
to loved ones
whisper rebellion
in turn
pages are written of
friends, lovers, brothers
beaten back by
those who would
fight for power
over truth
III
and through that expanse
we call
time
the murmurs creep;
across parchment, paper,
figures on a screen;
they meet, meld,
as we – as I – listen to those
who stood before us.
IV
they edge into this century;
our century
for nothing ever changes
besides the names
of those who dare
and they clamour,
the strains of
the voice
weaving into
one final shout: