‘The rebels always find each other,’
the old men used to say, scowling
at us and our feral-haired friends
in the slums of Nairobi.
Tell my people I love them.

The rebels do not know who they are
but they know who they are not;
they know they are breathing bad air,
they know something is not quite right here.

The rebels always find each other,
communicating on some soul-dimension of revolutionary
called to understand, called to speak,
called to live and live well the cause of peace.
Let them be alone if they must.
They will empty their pockets for the freedom of the world
and feel themselves the winners of some crazy cosmic sweepstakes--
tell my people I love them.

The rebels always find each other
far from home,
far from other.
They find each other and remind each other:
to tell despair to *******,
to reach for light,
to stay up all night seeking,
because the rebels will find each other
and be found--
tell my people
I love them

by Teej Mali