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Edited on Wed Dec-31-03 10:59 AM by BurtWorm
On your island are Two great wounds being fitted with a single scar Named “Freedom” (Unhappy, stolen name!) Inflicting a shard of shiv-like finger into the very air Where foreign bodies (The disease itself? Mere symptoms?) Ravaged.
Facing “Freedom”—or its fierce, caged back— Liberty: human, woman, mother of rebirth— Too frankly dix-neuvieme siècle For this century-corrupted piece of Earth.
You were born on this island under Liberty. You are a child of that isle’s promise To your strange persecuted line, A promise kept in your own child’s birth. You named her in your womb after Wisdom Six blind years before these wounds were opened Before Liberty’s eyes— (Oh, happy to be blind of this confusion!)— Her name, a sign that we had hope in Wisdom. She was our tower, not of our design, But for our witness of her self-design, Free standing, free forming, On Wisdom’s solid ground.
And then that flawless morning: Fruits of fear and error Free falling through a Sky of fire, Black ash, gray cloud— Peace is finished now, they said, And safety gone. And what once was is now no more. And irony is dead.
What, then, is this: Liberty imprisoned—and shackled “Freedom” Pitching from the pit of awful memory? Don’t be afraid. Freedom is born, an infant, naked. She will find it Or she will make it.
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