Balled fists in pockets

Browsing hope stalls

At the markets

With gritted teeth...

Holding back the words

Like sheathed swords

Rusted to the hilt

Waiting for blood to be spilt...

And be drawn once more

To cut through the quiet

Desperation of our times

It's hardly a conspiracy

The obscenity imposed

By forces we endorse

For fear of worse

Or preoccupation

With our more immediate course

But what can there be done ?

Hope for something else long gone

Our prospects as traumatic

As the pain inflicted throughout all history

Still aching in our collective memory

As more's heaped on every day

Sword in its sheath

By my side

Grind my teeth

As my hand

Remains still

I must fight

My own will

My own thirst

For justice

I watch this

As I did

As I do

Every time

For unseen

I must stay

To live on

'Til the day

Of revenge

But what can there be done ?

Hope for something else long gone

Our prospect as traumatic

As the pain inflicted throughout all history

Still aching in our collective memory

As more's heaped on every day