Just a quick blog post. This one is a poem dedicated to history, in general. Found originally written on cured banana skins nailed to voting booths in Honduras.
The Dawn Shall Come
Take heart, weary watchers;
the dawn will rise through the rain,
perhaps on the bleak slopes of winter,
or on the white fields tossing with grain.
Have strength, little guardian;
the house was not built in vain-
whether divided in rubble or high on a rock-
the sun shall shine on it again.
Find courage, prophets of ruin,
your cowardice is not all to blame;
the wheels of God turn slowly,
but they will raise up the sun once again.
Aye, we stagger on a heady drought,
The tears of Lord mixed with the blood of his saints,
what precious wrath we drink so fast,
draining the cup until we reel and faint.
How cheaply we sell what others have bought;
how quick we are to scorn the past,
we sacrifice that which is not ours to give-
we discard the bronze and display the cast.
If only our treasure not tarnish or rot,
if only our idols could wake up and live-
the house we defend not totter and rend-
If only we had stayed with the One who forgives.
Oh, what songs the wind shall sing-
through this massive eagle's bones!
Oh, what silly pointless things
will be figured from our stones!
Would that this world not stumble towards midnight,
would that these rocks cry out for us all;
if only we'd cherish our last bit of sunlight;
and see that our pillars topple and fall,
But those whom He punishes I know that he loves,
Just as our hearts break and then mend,
and when we beg for his blood to rain from above,
I know that the dawn shall come back again.
The Dawn Shall Come
Take heart, weary watchers;
the dawn will rise through the rain,
perhaps on the bleak slopes of winter,
or on the white fields tossing with grain.
Have strength, little guardian;
the house was not built in vain-
whether divided in rubble or high on a rock-
the sun shall shine on it again.
Find courage, prophets of ruin,
your cowardice is not all to blame;
the wheels of God turn slowly,
but they will raise up the sun once again.
Aye, we stagger on a heady drought,
The tears of Lord mixed with the blood of his saints,
what precious wrath we drink so fast,
draining the cup until we reel and faint.
How cheaply we sell what others have bought;
how quick we are to scorn the past,
we sacrifice that which is not ours to give-
we discard the bronze and display the cast.
If only our treasure not tarnish or rot,
if only our idols could wake up and live-
the house we defend not totter and rend-
If only we had stayed with the One who forgives.
Oh, what songs the wind shall sing-
through this massive eagle's bones!
Oh, what silly pointless things
will be figured from our stones!
Would that this world not stumble towards midnight,
would that these rocks cry out for us all;
if only we'd cherish our last bit of sunlight;
and see that our pillars topple and fall,
But those whom He punishes I know that he loves,
Just as our hearts break and then mend,
and when we beg for his blood to rain from above,
I know that the dawn shall come back again.
