Such was the life we deserved, writing declarations
We would not send out of some inexplicable cowardice,
Managing only to tie them in colourful ribbons
And finding this too, futile.
And the heart beat deeply, destined for greater things,
But we lived in eternal obscurity;
The humble stepping over us, brows raised to the sky
While we on ours, donned unworthy wreaths.
Our faces contorted in terrible grimaces,
And through vanity alone, accepted countless compliments,
As we watched our lives depart, foreign and hasty,
While we, soundless, passed through, hated and hating.
Every little thing angered us, and especially our dreams,
The gaze of passers-by mere stains in our eyes.
But still, with pride did we hold out untainted hands,
In which we held and still hold, pure violets.
Craving like sensitive, passionate children
– that consolation and justification in life – for love
And if ever we found it silently awaiting
Proffering our hands out only in humility.
We avoided the mediocre with immutable conviction,
(resolute hunters of the Good and the Absolute)
Treating our wounds as prizes. Oh, wise knowledge, how futile they were,
the craftsman’s golden chisel, pickaxe of the activist.
Starting our morns with dark omens over our heads
Uncertainties tethering us to the ground
And we in disgust spitting at our snivelling image
And wearing instead the red berets of revolution.
Then we would dream of change and once again
Bow, sickly slaves in faithful adoration to pain,
Waving bright pennants of victory for losses
And honourably accepting ridicule and hurt.
Distrustful and miserable, unwillingly we chained ourselves
Inside this fortress of silence, sitting thus to observe
Passing people through the aperture,
Bravely shying from the shadows of passing birds.
Cowardly in love, and even more so in our hatred,
Rigid and powerless we were entrenched between them,
Receiving wounds from both, while soundlessly counting,
Each and every death on our frozen fingers.
Finding foes everywhere, and shrouding bright skies
With our shadows. And, when the dangers pass,
In solitude living and twining the executioner’s noose,
So that we may hang our innocent selves in their place.