This is a poem I wrote today, I think I’ll call it “The Dream”:

In most cases, people, even wicked people, are far more naive and simple-hearted than one generally assumes. And so are we.

America was a dream that is no more
although perhaps never truly a dream
or perhaps it was only a dream
but persistent nonetheless

the land-bridge followers, a few explorers,
dissidents, some aristocracy,
some brought against their will, some turned away
and still came anyway, driven or drawn

intoxicating, the allure of hope
from where did this dream come?

a great man urgently says i must act
i heard him just today, pleading with me
a man aged, wise, good-hearted and sincere
the elders say that we must save this dream

their generation, different from ours
depression, holocaust and vietnam
the unions, race riots and urban sprawl
and here, now - we begin.

a young man speaks, i often hear his call
the dream was fraud but we can make it real
if we unite for God and for the poor
these intellectuals speak much and act some
with faint echos of france, and many youth
and visions to redeem society

i’m caught somewhere between evil and good
to try and reconcile diverse things taught
i’m less inclined to believe in the dream
perhaps it was but i cannot attest
my world is new, and not the same as theirs

i ponder pharaoh’s death, the caesar’s fall
imagine chinese tanks, the russian wall
no dream’s immortal or eternal here
greatness is surely but a breeze, a glance
both men and nations

but certainly this never means the end
lest we forget that in the darkest lands
good men still live, if only quietly;
a cruel society is fertile soil
their blood is seed for many more to come
and persecution, rain for thirsty buds

and even still i find much cause for hope
though not where old or young tell me to look
but somewhere else.

and what will i believe when years have passed?
and what will last?

Comments