In the tower, as a prisoner surrounded
by  walls of flesh and blood; to etch upon
the walls, my innocence and guilt; how
my mind was mistreated by all who had
mistreated their own; what was I to expect
from a life that offers nothing except pain
at birth, life then death; what principles
are offered except riddles by those who
do not care to hear the warnings of
freedoms scattered before them like the
blackened eyes of serpents whose bodies
continue to writhe though separated from
their own minds by the sharpened axes
of each generation that will see the truth
only in ways that make them feel whole

The holiest time of captivity, when our old
wounds gather together; when we know
we are all of these, we begin to speak  
calmly of them, proud of what we know
of our strength in the faith that the sun  
will shine upon us no matter the clouds  
that have gathered, defusing the dewy
stars to make shadows warning those
who laugh at the bravery of peace and  
the truth no matter who may speak it;
for darkness is always reserved for fools
who can only see today as if the sunrise
is afraid to be the one who forgives first,
while we, in the sight of a cross for  life
and a stone for death make the choice
to live for the harmony of love as we
were taught; to share the whole of our
existence with those who once made
us think of hate