Tyrants fear the sea,
watch its silent swell with dread,
scan the horizon for the smallest sails,
boats laden only, it is said, with hope.
Tyrants fear the sky, cannot cope
with thoughts of birds’ free flight,
keep their eyes wide open,
long into a blacked out night,
knowing that come the dawn,
wings will stretch out for the light.
Tyrants fear the land.
The toe-curling sand is not theirs
to hold. The deepest roots mature,
hidden from sight of their towers,
safe from the assassin’s blade,
nurtured by our own blood,
an infinite future of flowers.