Is it too much to ask--
Hands hold hands, waiting to run
from the grip of fear--
Faces fade to gray against
the colors of the heart's life--
only the still.
only a still face,
their eyes set in stone, the eyes tell all
but all will be well... and all is not well
We will make it, we can be strong...
but hope is thrown to the side of a dream built for the few--
We saw a finch in flight, with change upon its wings...
by a bell rung in fury... for freedom--
The lyre held in the blood-soaked arms of the ignorant,
on and on
and leave Us to burn
and bullet by bullet, we are broken and blamed--
And for each gunshot, another excuse, another dismissal, another song strummed
on the strings of the ego.
This is the call for the revolution
This is Our Time,
not the time of the cold and hateful
hate has no place in the house of hope--
Is it too much to ask?