Their restless arms were weary with the load of common sight
The skies had cracked
The ground had split
The first victims of the fight
There were no victories and heroes born along this battle line
It was brother against brother
Truth against truth
No surviving moral sign.

The crumbling walls of a church decayed
in a courtyard empty and bleeding,
Tombstones lonely already
Were again markets for arguments pleading.

He lay there in the morning light
Hymns of cannons singing clearly
His voice was quiet
He could not see
His life drained from his body wearied.

His history was limited
He never fought the awesome foes
That slaughtered Jews, that threatened liberty--
These had worn his very clothes.

Humour is so relative (he thought)
There's laughter in every view
Except the ones that drained his life
The only value now he knew.

He heard the marching footsteps of friends and foes the same
In the thundering claps of shattering skies
For which he was to blame.
Dylan bled from his empty pockets
Lennon was his broken feet
Ah, the ballot box
He cursed his ears
He'd put the wrong thing in the seat.

And as he lay there dying
And the truth at last was seen
He cried for compassion
And for what it might have been.
And when they found him
Since removed
To be what couldn't be
They measured him as a soldier lost
In the battle to be free.

And when they were asked
What was the cost?
What cause would now survive?
They gave the answer he'd never heard
(He died alone)--
The virtue of being alive.

And somewhere above
The box below with the first two victims side-by-side
There was the laughter
Of friend and foe alike
The last honest thought had died.

--by GORDON C. WONG,
from "What Lies Beyond This Door",*
copyright 1982 by GORDON C. WONG

*-hopefully to be published in the new millennium.

-TO CONSIDER THE FOOTNOTE TO THIS IN MY MAY 14, 1988 SUBMISSION OF IT TO MRS. ALAN PATON, TAKE YOUR NEXT FOOTSTEP HERE.