top of page

The Prisoners


Within this room of stone I lie

and watch the traffic hurry by

outside the narrow window pane

where love and life alike are vain

and ponder, between them and we

who the real prisoners be.



Eight months have passed now since the day

that we were tried and locked away.

Guilty! of not standing by

while innocents were brought to die.

Guilty! of denying choice

for once with more than merely voice.



It's not with weapons or by force

that rescuers save lives, of course,

but with their bodies do implore

for children who the world abhor

and by this act grant dignity

for "To hurt them, you must first hurt me."



Oh, great the rage of wounded pride

from men unused to being defied!

how great their zeal to instill dread

lest such defiance start to spread.

Accordingly, did Federal beast

on our humiliation feast

and soon their petty verdict released.



So now, inside our cells we wait

til Moloch's heirs decide our fate.

And I am taken to reflect

upon the voices who object

that "Sacrifice has no effect!

So best one's liberty protect."



For now has passed full fifty years

of endless blood (far fewer tears)

as parents do their offspring kill

by knife, suction machine and pill,

as tiny corpses with no names

are eaten up by rats and flames

and inconvenient people bleed

to satisfy both lust and greed.



Is this the land I thought I knew

where I was born, and loved, and grew?

Where friend and kin live, ties are strong

and everything I am belongs,

all harmonized in life's heartsong?

And all my youth I could not see

my home was bathed in savagery!

Cruel leaven of reality

now poisons every memory.



How well this sad epiphany

from idle things has severed me!

How empty, pointless, cheap and lean

the aims of average men now seem

as they pursue transient gain

oblivious to unborn pain.

Their paths I cannot imitate.

Such times great deeds necessitate.



And I must not omit to say

I see sparse difference between they

who, fearing duty, babes dispose

and the weedy soil who won't interpose.



These, sheltered beneath Gothic spires

retort "Ye preach unto the choirs!"

while all their days, they too pursue

the idols unbelievers do

and who, to maintain normal life

and keep their families safe from strife

spare not the time, have not the will

the Great Commandment to fulfill.



Thus "bad" and "good" behave akin,

not trapped in jails, yet slaves to sin.



Still, despite these griefs I pray

that we at last will see a day

when Sardis, weeping, completes her deeds,

takes up her cross and then proceeds

to teach and suffer and protest

and sometimes even risk arrest

til sinners do their guilt esteem

and finally hear the silent scream.



But some few must go first, it seems ...



Now we believe we've found a way

to respect the imago dei

and false authority defy

and all excuses nullify.



And having done this awkward deed

we hope that those outside take heed

and watch, to see how they proceed.



Thus, better captive in these walls

than to my fear I be a thrall.

Better that false freedom cease

than true freedom exchange for peace.



Better men should me restrain

than I, loving ease, from love refrain.



Within this room of stone I lie

and watch the traffic hurry by

outside the narrow window pane

where love and life alike are vain

and ponder, between them and we

who the real prisoners be.




32 views0 comments

ความคิดเห็น


bottom of page