A Song For Humans

Arise, o human hearts, and forge ahead;

Through troubled childhood’s lessons persevere.

Though truth, integrity and merit ebb,

It falls to you to rule this august sphere

And venture far beyond it, shunning fear.

Through tragedy, and through the coming storm

You noble few must carry all the rest -

The burden falls to you of upright form.

With naked tooth, bright eye and glistening breast

You’ll toil so those behind you might be blessed.

You brothers, sisters, each on each depend

To mend old wounds with your unsharpened tongues.

Rise up and out, beyond the skies extend

Your piercing gaze aloft, and fast outrun

Destructive mothers out of whom you sprung.

Now sunder cords that bind your buoyant soul;

Press hard against their cutting, biting strands.

Inherit all your searching eyes behold;

Embrace your kingdom with work-willing hands

And labor hard to see your lot expand.

O youth! O flow’r of ancient hope!

O cure, by prophets long bespoke!

Put tongue to teeth in every effort made

Correcting devious fathers’ past mistakes

Which haunt their children’s hearts like ghoulish shades.

Now banners raised against you raise the stakes.

Now face your enemies for their own sakes.

The ignorant, self-righteous will oppose

And say you have no right to rise above

The rest who will do ever nought but pose.

Their stillness is what forces you to move

To aid them (though they see it not) for love.

“To us!” Your call rings out, but isn’t heard.

Instead they rally to Fat Cats and Clowns.

“We act!” You cry, but they want only words

And tricks to keep their dull minds buttoned down;

For waste and dross they offer up their crowns.

For though they will not join you, you may be

Assured – with battles lost, the war is won.

It’s plain as day, to those with eyes to see,

Through impotence they rob themselves of sons;

With every hill they gain, their pow’r's undone.

O youth! O flow’r of ancient hope!

O cure, by prophets long bespoke!

Arise, o human hearts, and rise again

To see your long and glorious labor done.

Your shackles are illusions, wrought by pain;

A hindrance, yes, but simply overcome.

Your path is set, your victory foregone.

Slough off the hardened husk of history

That weighed your forebears down into despair.

Consume your doubt in a cacophony

Of fiery bold intent, because you dare

To strive, to build, to reach, to speak, to care.