How men do march their lives as soldiers gone,
To rhythms seen or hid but yet to come,
Reactions bold, a pacifist’s response,
A right man is as kin and peers have done.
All forms must weather by the winters seen,
Though change be small, the clay does toughen some,
I weep for glorious men that might have been,
That live among us, bound and blind and dumb.
Romantics drowned, caricatured to stone,
Another man to lay another piece,
Or lay himself to die beneath his home,
To live his name on stones for the deceased.
Too rare is he whose left hand finds the height,
To rest ashoulder of forgotten kings,
And heaves himself by faith beneath his right,
And climbing there still finds the heart to sing.
So rare is he unburdened and alive,
That moulds, dear masons, must we bleed and pen,
To leave as he who lived two years and thrived,
Upon himself alone, and only then,
Will thoughts be aerial and free to roam,
And hearts be true enough for souls divine,
To live and love as only poets know,
For now begins the future, and this time,
Can men be men, and minds soar into light,
And rhythms be the dance of things to come,
Reactions brave, oneself to join the fight,
For true men are as kin and peers become.