TO A PEOPLE ON THE CUSP OF FREEDOM

I wrote this as Arab Spring was showing promise in the MidEast

Hushed dissent behind closed doors
takes root and grows
in cafes and bazaars, shops and back yards
freedom whispers no more

Into the streets flows the soul of a nation
finding its voice, rising as one,
tired of breathing the stink of corruption,
captive to one man’s vision.

The fever burns bright, the falcon takes flight,
flares paint the crowd in stark black and white
No smoke full of tears, no massed military might
will turn them away this night.

Bakeries abandoned, there’s no bread to eat
No coffee to drink, no afternoon tea
Looted shop shutters succumb, defeated
by the twin pangs of hunger and greed.

From the window we watch the crowd below
Yesterday they smashed in our door.
Our young men stand guard down on the first floor
We lost water and power twelve hours ago.

Freedom’s flavor depends much on who’s tasting
Taken for granted, freedom is blandest
the flavor grows sweeter, the harder the chasing
For freedom’s fighters, the flavor is grandest.

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