I’m done with fighting. That is what I’m done with. Rise, o thousand words, And screech like pyrotechnic birds The chorus in my throat, Peace, not Crows or spears or medals, only
When I still had the sunlight in my hair I thought the gods of theatre had misspelt My stage directions; was I Caesar’s heir? I did not feel the quiet others felt
If you let them say you’re free, And you let them, like they do, Take their guns to me and you, They will frame you, and you’ll see, All your gains will be their own,