” Go back, all of you,
to your homes”
The people cried.
Must a nation always be,
a gaoler of the brave?
Spring will meet this year,
somewhere on freedom road.
And the names of the dead,
will be part of a greater tomorrow.
The times are torn asunder
” Go back, all of you,
to your homes”
The people cried.
Must a nation always be,
a gaoler of the brave?
Spring will meet this year,
somewhere on freedom road.
And the names of the dead,
will be part of a greater tomorrow.
A Wandering Poet 