by Nick Gisburne
They hang him, and they cheer, a spiteful day,
His crime a calm, dismissive disbelief,
Convinced that, if they snatch his soul away,
The rage, the insurrection, can be brief.
The bones of bleak, misguided pride will break.
Another loss, yet nothing stems the flow.
The beatings, brutal, only re-awake
The seeds of doubt. They scatter. Some will grow.
A single root will feed and foster hope.
The silent few are stronger than they seem.
Dissent cannot be strangled with a rope.
Oppression never smothered any dream.
Each seed, in isolation, seems absurd,
But, as they grow, they hunger to be heard.
