Make your signs beautiful, for God to see.
They are prayers, not to be wasted
on that gang of lying brats who swindle us of power;
they're for that starved angel they keep
chained in the national basement.

Make your signs bright, for the blind to read
and don't expect victory, just miracles.

Don't demand peace or call loudly for justice.
Beg mercy. Our nation's trial
is now in the sentencing phase.

Witness. We live here
and we don't need
vacant assets; we need neighbors.
Not insurance plans, just doctors;
nor more school buildings, only people
teaching with love and understanding.
We don't need masters, just the right
to do what's needed and to not
be made to fear.

I first saw you in the 60's;
now we're back again five decades later
and the lies we face haven't changed
enough to matter.

Victory
is never ours, but miracles
keep rising up from our ashes.
It's been a long death, but we're still here.

Forrest Curo
Oct 2, 2011

[Earlier, wordier version was written pre-war at Pendle Hill.]