by Pavel Chichikov
They have a secret you don't know
Meek ones, those who never push
Accept the last place in the queue
Were never first in any place
They wipe the fever off your face
Scrape and paint your weathered house
Plant the seedlings on the path
Avert the foulness of wrath
But not forever, not for long
Even meekness is not strong
Enough to stop unpaid forever
Wages of corruption, terror
I saw a child with uncombed hair,
A halter of the great nightmare
Held as lightly in her hand
As if it were a gentle friend
She could ride it though it stood
As high as any wild oak wood
And where she takes it you will see
When you have grown as meek as she
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
