By Lucas Bensley
When we cannot see our own–kin of home–where they lay.
Starker still is love, the flower, which, in the hour, wilts away.
To be replaced with other dreams—sweets and things that dull the pain.
And current pushes us to scorn, to be borne back into past.
Foolish! Sparks are not born of apathy, callously, and only when asked
But when lions stand in their youth to bring truth and malice to clash.
History’s ink is wet of tears and blood of years of combat alone–
In the courts and city streets where violence greets a righteous tone.
Someday soon we will be one—the hatred done: one seat, one home.
What is shall come to pass forever if we, together, cast the first stone.