Dear Anarchist,

Dear Anarchist,

lonesome in the toil

of these weary days

and silent nights,

of rattling chains

and choked flights,

in this deeply hurt world,

where fondness lies limp

lions in caves, deep inside

slumber on and on

as one by one, they kill all love,

as humans, numbed to stone,

speak in cold voices,

lay down rules, stern as no ship ever were,

as ragged, rugged dreams

that forgot how to glint, like raw love

that forgot how to bloom,

are taken down like shamed flags

like buildings taking over ancient totems

tree-souls chopped in supermarket craze...

But that other, cold, craze,

shall ever be true.