- i.m. Dolores
Ibárruri 1895-1989
-
- Embody
the utter freedom of honesty
- and
the present will not slip away, will not pass by,
- without
moulding the past into history, so often
forestalled.
-
- With
fire, with revulsion, all but the spirit will
fall short
- before
the certainty it offers calls for disguise
- to
prevent the shame disparity would bring.
-
- For,
being able to become success tomorrow,
- each
should defend the success of the moment
- and,
against all bounds, live long, live slow, live
lax.
-
Afterwards, with the significance of the sea- more
than set to accept the admiration of those
- known
by allusion to face life with passion,
- the
effort of articulation will leave
- one
and every committed soul tending the soil
- of
which they never crow;
-
- never
despair;
-
- soil
quivering with fury
- at
the assassination of the memory of us.
-
-
- Be
ready,
- be
shrewd,
- be
eager to encounter compromise without submission.
-
- Be
quick to square the circle.
-
- Be
as you are through all you resist, all you
accrue,
- as
you sweat in the throng for all to see.
-
 |
-
- In
time, the unbroken rhythm of silence will be
joined
- by
the unyielding sense of sadness placed in the way
of progress,
- so
that, together, they come to be
- meaningless
issue of a line without end.
-
- In
time, of all the similar secrets likely to fade,
- none
will go slowly into the dark
-
- none
will slip away uncertain of any tomorrow
-
- none
will happen to hunger for the humiliation
- so
often suffered at the hand of pride.
-
- In
time, the significance of circumstances
- will
drift towards solution, ending the day in
loneliness,
- yet
seizing the pleasure of succumbing to
persuasions,
- of
losing with dignity when nothing is all that will
remain.
-
- But,
for now,
- the
possibility of faith trickles, reluctant to be
ready to be;
-
- the
unbroken present shared amongst muses faithful to
the end,
- muses
who have so seldom perished,
- who
have resisted and won by accepting the darkness
is long.
-
 |
-
- Your
tongue charms what is left of the dread of
descent.
-
- Your
hands tear at the conceit conquest demands.
-
- You
refuse to assume a stance.
-
- And,
momentarily, only your doubt stands in your way.
-
-
- Nothing
goes on
- that
should be over
-
- be
done.
-
- Nobody
calls
- for
the testimony of children
- who
have played,
- without
fret,
- in
the streets.
-
- Time
endures all.
-
- With
the naive sigh
- of
self-satisfaction
- at
taming the past,
- it
has fashioned gold
- into
a tomorrow
- each
of us accepts
-
- as
reliable, as familiar, as true.
-
-
- Equipped
with the cause
- to
come to the belief
- that
the end will be reached,
- the
unknown
- is
branded prophecy
- and
the promise of shelter is pulled.
-
- Only
your conviction
- to
the denouement to be arrived at
- will
free you
- from
the coldness of night
- into
which you have allowed fidelity
- to
fall like a gift no one wants.
-
-
- The
bitterness
-
- never-endingly
stewing
- between
obdurate masses
-
- goes
on
-
- names
dragged through dirt
- and
conceit complete
- in
bringing chaos to the day.
-
- Of
the merciless tedium
- of
heaven’s conversion
-
- so
little is known.
-
- All
who want to soar
- face
their obligation to peril
-
- alone.
-
-
- Our
need for love screams
-
- it
shouts
- and,
for all we know,
- no
one cares.
-
- It
screams all the more
-
- passionate
in cadence,
- faced
with heartless
- sincerities.
-
-
- Yet,
- though
with complete conviction,
- the
loyal mutiny only once.
-
- Trust
no-one.
-
- Your
conceit is
- in
knowing
- the
insurrectionary heart
-
- in
knowing
- your
struggle goes on
-
- indignation
veiled
- over
your perfect face.
-
- No,
trust no-one.
-
- Who,
after all,
- is
distinguished by their duty
-
- acknowledged,
by all,
- for
their fear of simple change?
-
- Nobody.
-
- No-one.
-
-
- In
the dead of night
- sanity
dies
- with
blood on the sea
-
- with
flames in the veins
- of
every tomorrow to come.
-
- To
resist
- is
as a whim.
-
- To
shed tears
- is
to descend into the iciness
- of
the pounding chaos
-
- threatened
then
- with
the ignominy of triumph
-
- a
warrior soft with compassion.
-
-
- Your
final act
- must
be to drain
- the
nebulous wiles
- we
know prolong our disgrace.
-
- Waver
- and
all will end in tears.
-
- Stand
firm
- and
the sweat of sway
- will
fall from your face
- to
stifle the flames of our regret.
-
- Your
final act
- must,
without wane, be so.
-
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