We are wounded souls in this wounded world.
Sphere of custom and entropy deceived,
Flows the tears that behold the truth unfurled
And the silent shrieks of the never freed.

Awed by the great tidings, the least is shunned,
The least of my brothers from all exempt.
Affront the laborers of blood made fund,
To warriors whom indignity accept.

Injustice cries the woman scorned for child,
An outrage and disgrace! Screams the doomed souls.
Steel and fire and powder, great acts made wild,
Trample the flowers, hear how the bell tolls.

Hear how the bell tolls the coming of the night,
How the great north winds come and pillage,
How the tides come, go and sway out of sight
They come as verdicts, as says the adage.

By and by and by, fleeting are the vast.
Remains are the meek breeze and gentle stream.
For last be the first, and the first, the last,
Such just justice draws nigh the dreamer’s dream.

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