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who cries that terrible knocking?
faint though the whispers of the door
in quiet towns, and silent cities all over
ruled like every nation that came before.

and who be the tyrant, the distant king
or president, or emperor on a distant shore?

or,
the iron fist that enforces.
the velvet glove of the bureaucrat.
may they be made to knock..no more.

the stirrings that we were, when whence
we were once free, where cries of freedom
lived once in emboldened lion hearts
now whispers of mere liberty.

"but rise!" this common hour,
was the days mere refrain
they too loving of life, and freedom
too afraid of deprivation, poverty and pain

as birds in cages once caught
think they forgot how to fly.
But whence that terrible gate is once pried open.
It is to rogues to do and die.