With each strike of the hammer
Embers launch themselves out
From the source of such a clamor,
Seeking a space to seed doubt.

The seeds are forever sown,
But the farmers are soon neutralized
They never get to see their work grown,
They only started getting them unionized.

But each earthbound cooling spark
Is just a part of the movement’s progression.
The real movement is each hammer mark,
Created from each act of oppression.

As the weapon of war is finished,
An army rises, and an empire is diminished.