If a man should see the future of his own household There are tents like a flock of birds Resting in the valley plain There are courtyards with grass and water, Balconies hung with flowers There are voices rising with the dawn Each one beloved There are the treasures of love Gold, silver and pearls Every soul filled with good things
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I have come from the north To plead the cause of my people I would like to be able to threaten you But you are far greater in strength I know that I should plead with you But I am proud, because in my heart I am still a man Come on and crush me under the iron wheels of your freedom Break my bones with your clumsy policy Crush out my breath with your self-serving justice This is the closely written text of a martyrs death This is the conquered chieftains song. Among my people my treasured epitaph; "Better to die under their hand than to live under it." But my hearts comfort is not so noble And lies more clearly in a simple truth; That I was never you.
The Prisoners’ Wall - b y Sam Hollands Introduction There had been war for nearly two thousand years. As well as three major continental wars there had been countless civil wars, land wars, sea wars, the war of vanity, and the prolonged and terrifying war of technology. The psychological dissonance of conflict had crept with varying degrees of subtlety into every home. War constituted the strongest thread of meaning for two thousand years. One of the poets of this world had described these two millennia as a “love affair with mortality” and the people loved him for pulling off that age-old trick of supplying a glib phrase to allow everyone to be wry and wise about something truly and incomprehensibly terrible. Then mankind achieved peace. Worldwide unity of purpose, an end to the unsightly carnage that had been their heritage for so many jarring years. It had begun with a piece of legislation called “The Universal Bill of Conservation” which...