Revolution

The children walk with mud on their face,
The parents talk with about money and race.

I see the old buildings, the chipped paint of towers.
My feet crunch under the brown dead flowers.

"Fear for the end!" They cry in despair.
"Fear for the end!" They make their purpose clear.

Bricks break windows.
Red curtains catch flame.
I watch in terror of their ignorant claims.

"Fear for the people, their price, their lives!"
I can't help question who voiced that strangled cry.

I wondered, Lost, With a curious feel
but keep my conscious painfully clear

A rock smashes the wall, a car, the floor,
and I see the sudden changes in score.

"Fight for revolution," I raises my hand.
"Fight for false freedom," They seem to command.

What truth can we hear with these voices so loud?
What right do I have to break through the clouds?

"Do forget my honest purpose," I speak, but what for?
They answer with protest and
With that I say no more.