by Stephen Jarrell Williams
We walk in a quiet march
under heavy clouds,
mist falling
mini pearls clinging to our coats.
The singing has ended for the night,
the song still in our minds,
our throats swore
by the meaning of the words.
Tomorrow we will be in the City of Cities,
all the world will hear.
We are some of the many
millions wanting
change in the kingdoms of government...
We move on,
our numbers blurring the sight of us...
Thunder rumbling in the distance,
countries beginning to bow.
Not enough bullets, or fire, or depravity
can weigh us down like the old days lying,
lying, so much lying...
We are no longer meek.
Our strength is our will
pushing down the walls with our flood of flesh.
In the mourning we will sing. We will sing.
And they will listen.
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