Some call us revolutionaries, some say we are born, not made.
Why then, within our minds must doubt and turmoil pervade?
Like an impatient reader who jumps to the last page,
Are we drinking our wine before we have let it age?
Are we victory’s vanguards or futility’s foot soldiers,
Fighting for a cause dead and locked in its hearse?
We keep marching on, though the terrain ahead is a blur,
Has sense betrayed us for thirty pieces of silver?
Are we following the sweet music of liberty’s call,
Or is a sinister pied piper leading us to our fall?
Are we shedding blood to claim something that once was ours,
Or is ambition making us play desperation’s wet nurse?
The vagueness questions the worth of the pain we endure,
But then we look at our children, and can at once be sure.
The wounds will heal, though the gashes are deep,
But the young ones must once again smile in their sleep,
Keep smiling in their sleep.