Our words are dead
like the tyrant's conscience
They've never bathed in the fountain of life,
never known birth pangs or wounds,
the miracle of walking on spear points.
We dream of a world free of chains
rising from our paralyzed pens
That a season of roses
will blossom in our dying hearts
We dream of a fresh miracle
born from our pens
When the brave poet is afraid to die
his best poem is silence!