We think the strong will change the world, and seed a better way,
But look and see the Kings and Lords who crush it in their will.
The weak, the vulnerable and willing, are true bearers of new earth,
Those who can be planted deep, to die wrapped in the soil,
To give what tiny portion’s theirs for a good beyond themselves,
And surrender who they are to nourish grace, and peace, and love.
Watch the governors, the powerful, clothed in precious ego,
The jewelled and the robed, weilding staffs and polished swords.
They do not see, they cannot hear, their souls and minds are deaf,
To the gentle voice that calls and weaps from the centre of the storm.
The song calls to the young, to the oppressed and the neglected,
To the hungry and the homeless, to the poor and to the blind.
To the one who finds no peace in sleep, the one who dreads the dawn.
To the mother and the father of the babe thats not yet born.
PICTURA POESIS 