They're moving. There's so many out there,
he told me while standing by
the window that casts sharply
light sworn to fade.
Yes, the first crowd, flowing like a river,
all as if in sleepwalk, sharing that same dream—
bright, violent tomorrows, and
why shouldn't revolution be a quiet affair?
What more it is, it is by our designs.
Then the fanfare of the city's
sounds becomes irrelevant
beneath the growing rhythm.
The percussion starts with
the dull thuds of tier-gas
canisters, wailing, wails
by hands of rage,
but new names and old chaos?
When a tree blossoms, it's not to make a promise.
To put hope in its leaves, you have to forget autumn.