O weary stage where morning breaks in light,
And men do don their masks ere truth is said,
What restless dream hath kept the world in flight
Whilst gold and grief lie tangled, cold and bled?
The streets do hum with iron beast that roar,
As hearts scroll endless scrolls of fleeting flame;
We speak of peace, yet sharpen every door,
And carve our names in sorrow’s quiet name.
Behold the child who learns of war too soon,
Whose lullaby is sirens in the night;
Yet still the moon hangs tender, pale and swoon,
As if to teach the dark a softer light.
O man, I mind that builds and breaks the same,
Thou art both saint and shadow in thy claim;
For every hand that heals another’s pain
Hath also known the weight of grief and blame.
Yet still despite this tempest wrought and torn
The rose will climb the iron fence of scorn
