To The World That Owes Us Spring: Love Songs in a Time of Disquiet
You came to me with empty hands,
Yet gave me all you had;
A piece of bread, a quiet song,
The coat your father had.
We walked where others bowed their heads,
Where every doorway knew
The weight of those who owned the earth,
And those who only grew.
You spoke of houses without gates,
Of tables long and wide,
Where no one counted out his bread
While others ate inside.
I had no gold to lay before
The threshold of your room;
Only a shirt, a pair of shoes,
And promises of bloom.
You said that hands which built the walls
Should never beg for stone;
That those who sowed the fields by day
Should call the harvest home.
And when the voices filled the road,
And footsteps shook the ground,
You walked among the nameless ones
Without a trumpet's sound.
I saw you lift a fallen child,
And carry him away;
His mother stood among the crowd
With nothing left to say.
They wrote our names upon a sheet,
Then crossed them out in red;
And somewhere in an upper room,
A stranger counted bread.
You gave your portion to the weak,
Your water to the old;
And kept for me a little note
Within its battered fold.
It spoke of nothing grand or new,
No triumph to be won;
Only a place beside the door
When all our work was done.
But some who walked beside us then
No longer take the road;
Their cups remain upon the shelf,
Their shoulders bear no load.
And still you set another plate,
Though none may take that chair;
You never speak the absent names,
Yet leave their portion there.
If someday they should ask of me
What riches I possessed,
I'll show the thread upon my sleeve
Where once your fingers pressed.
And should they tear the roof away,
And scatter all we knew,
I'll build another dwelling there
With room enough for two.
For all the roads that men have made,
For all the flags unfurled,
I never asked to own the earth,
But walk with you upon the world.
"To Her"
Call me strange—for I have seen
What lies beneath tomorrow's veil:
The future dressed in yesterday,
The same old masters, the same old tale.
They call it dawn—I call it dusk!
What century has truly passed?
The hour has changed, the clocks have struck,
Yet still the first remains the last.
Call me strange—for I refuse
The golden towers promised high;
What use are cities in the clouds
When hungry children watch the sky?
They speak of wonders yet to come,
Of earth remade by human hands;
But those who raise the marble walls
Still bow before another's lands.
Call me strange! Their painted world
Has neither room for grief nor bread;
Their prophets sing of brighter days,
While counting profits from the dead.
And you—who know my restless heart,
Who hear the things I dare not say—
What shall I give you of this world,
When even hope is sold away?
No crown, no kingdom, no estate,
No splendid house beyond the hill;
Only these hands, this stubborn voice,
And something they have failed to kill.
Call me strange—for I have heard
A thousand whispers in the street;
Not prayers for mercy from above,
But voices rising from beneath.
Their histories! Their solemn lies!
Their promises of what shall be!
They built a future for themselves
And named its iron gates the free.
Yet every gate shall know its rust,
And every throne its final day;
The hands that once were made to kneel
Shall learn to take the stones away.
Call me strange—then let it be!
Let every prudent tongue condemn;
If speaking truth is reckoned mad,
Then madness is my gift to them.
And should my words become a flame,
And should that flame outlive my name,
Remember not the fire itself—
Remember why the fire came.
For I have asked no place above,
No monument upon the square;
Only that when the bells are rung,
You shall be standing with me there.
And if I fall before that hour,
And other voices take my place,
Let them not carve my name in stone—
But leave beside you one more space.
Call me strange—for I believe
What they have buried shall arise;
And if tomorrow comes at last,
May I behold it in your eyes.
Inspire Me Well
They say that dreams are born with wings—
I heard it yesterday, somewhere;
Upon a screen, a thousand things,
A promised heaven in the air.
Tomorrow!—How they praise its name!
How brightly all its windows shine!
Yet still the world remains the same,
And none of those bright rooms are mine.
Inspire me well!—For you have come
From where my yesterdays remain;
With eyes that speak of distant suns,
And hands that know another's pain.
Your face—what strange and gentle light!
What promise neither bought nor sold!
One glance—and through the longest night,
The weary heart forgets the cold.
They tell me: Work! And you shall rise!
They tell me: Wait! Your hour draws near!
Yet every road before my eyes
Returns me to another year.
The same old walls, the same old doors,
The same old masters dressed anew;
A thousand wonders fill their stores,
And still the hungry wait in queues.
What use are wings when skies are chained?
What use is dawn behind a wall?
What have the years of labor gained,
If those who build must beg for all?
And you—yes, you!—who stand so near,
Yet seem a century away,
You make the distant future clear,
And steal its brightness from yesterday.
Inspire me well! Not with a crown,
Nor promises of golden skies;
But with the strength to tear them down—
Those ancient walls, those ancient lies.
For I have neither wealth nor land,
No splendid house, no silver name;
Only the warmth within your hand,
And in my breast an unnamed flame.
If dreams have wings—then let them fly!
Not for the few who own the sun;
But for the hands that built the sky,
And all whose days are never done.
And should the roads divide our feet,
And should my voice no longer sound,
Remember where our shadows meet,
Where broken wings were lifted from the ground.
Inspire me well!—Until the day
The old world loosens its embrace;
Until tomorrow finds its way
To every door, to every face.
And when the red dawn fills the sky,
When yesterday has had its due,
Let all the long-forbidden dreams take flight—
And let me see that dawn with you.
'Tis My Homeland
(Inspired by Rennicke)
(Inspired by Rennicke)
Land of mountains, land of squatters,
Land of farms and urban blight,
Land of love and land of beauty,
Land of labor, strength, and might.
Though the system has deprived you,
Mocked you every day and night,
'Tis my homeland over others,
Over others, loved by right.
Land where peasants beg for mercy,
Land where workers toil all night,
Cradle of our fallen heroes,
Land of fear and bitter fight.
Though the system has deprived you,
Kept your people from their rights,
'Tis my homeland over others,
Over others, loved by right.
Land of morning, land beloved,
Land both plundered and denied,
Land of longing, never ending,
Land where hopes may yet arrive.
Though the system has deprived you,
We'll take weapons for the fight,
'Tis my homeland over others,
Over others, loved by right.
Land of sunrise, filled with mourning,
Land of ruins, veiled in light,
Land where thieves have robbed your glory,
And deceit is dressed as right.
Though the whole wide world may mock you,
Though its hatred holds you tight,
'Tis my homeland over others,
Over others, loved by right.
Though the whole wide world may mock you,
Though its hatred made us fight,
'Tis my homeland over others,
Over others, loved by right.